THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


ITALY 

ROME     AND     NAPLES 


FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF 


H.  TAINE 


J.    DlJRAND 


FOURTH  EDITION,  WITH  CORRECTIONS  AND  AN  INDEX 


NEW    YORK 
HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

1889 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1808, 
BT  LEYP01JDT  &  HOLT, 

IB  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Souther* 
D'ftriot  ol  New  York. 


IKTEODUOTION. 


To  M ,  at  Paris. 

January  16,  1864. 

Do  you  know  anything  more  disagreeable  than  an 
entr'acte  ?  You  sit  uneasily  in  your  chair  and  stretch 
your  limbs  and  yawn  discreetly.  Your  eyes  ache ;  wan- 
dering about  the  house,  they  fix  themselves  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  on  the  jaded  features  of  the  musicians:  on  the 
first  violinist  showing  himself  off,  on  the  clarionette  player 
taking  breath,  and  on  the  patient  basso  resembling  a 
hack  horse  resting  after  a  relay.  You  turn  round  to  the 
boxes,  and  over  snowy  shoulders  perceive  a  big  black  spot, 
an  enormous  lorgnette,  which  like  a  huge  proboscis  seems 
to  conceal  the  face  behind  it.  A  thick  deleterious  atmo- 
sphere hangs  over  the  crowded  parterre  and  orchestra ; 
through  the  cloud  of  illuminated  dust  you  detect  a  multi- 
tude of  uneasy  faces  grimacing  and  smiling  hypocritically; 
— bad  humour  reveals  itself  beneath  politeness  and  de- 
corum. You  buy  a  newspaper  and  find  it  stupid.  You 
even  read  the  libretto  which  is  still  more  stupid,  and 
finally,  grumble  quietly  to  yourself  that  your  evening 


2041835 


IV  INTRODUCTION. 

is  lost,  the  entr'acte  being  so  much  more  tedious  than 
the  play  is  amusing. 

There  are  an  infinity  of  entr'actes  in  travelling.  These 
are  the  dull  hours  of  the  day — getting  up,  going  to  bed, 
waiting  at  stations,  between  visits,  and  when  you  are 
weary  and  indifferent.  At  such  times  you  look  at  things 
on  the  dark  side.  There  is  but  one  remedy,  and  that  is 
a  pencil  and  taking  notes. 

You  must  regard  this  as  a  journal  *  with  some  of  its 
pages  missing,  and  moreover,  entirely  personal.  I  do  not 
pretend  that  what  pleases  me  will  please  you,  and  still  less 
that  it  will  please  others.  Heaven  preserve  us  from 
legislators  in  matters  of  beauty,  pleasure,  and  emotion  I 
What  each  one  feels  is  peculiar  and  appropriate  to  him- 
self like  his  nature ;  my  experiences  will  depend  upon 
what  I  am. 

Apropos  to  this,  I  must  begin  with  somewhat  of  self- 
examination  ;  it  is  prudent  to  inspect  an  instrument 
before  making  use  of  it.  According  to  my  own  experience 
this  instrument,  call  it  what  you  will,  whether  soul  or  in- 
tellect, derives  greater  pleasure  from  natural  objects  than 
from  works  of  art ;  nothing  seems  to  it  to  equal  mountains, 
seas,  forests,  and  streams.  It  has  always  shown  the  same 
disposition  in  other  things,  in  poetry  as  in  music,  in  archi- 
tecture as  in  painting ;  that  which  has  most  deeply  im- 
pressed it  is  the  natural  spontaneous  outflow  of  human 
forces,  whatever  these  may  be  and  under  whatever  form 

*  The  reader  will  bear  in  mind  the  political  changes  that  hare  occurred 
in  Italy,  since  this  work  was  written,  and,  notably,  the  removal  of  the 
French  troops  from  Rome.  By  so  doing,  certain  allusions  and  opinions  (fot 
instance,  on  pages  85  and  308)  will  not  seem  out  of  place.— Tt 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

they  present  themselves.  Provided  the  artist  is  stirred 
by  a  profound  passionate  sentiment,  and  desires  only  to 
express  this  fully,  as  it  animates  him,  without  hesitation, 
feebleness,  or  reservation,  the  end  is  served  ;  if  sincere  and 
sufficiently  mastei  of  his  processes  to  translate  his  impres- 
sion? accurately  and  completely,  his  work,  whether  ancient 
or  modern,  gothic  or  classic,  is  beautiful.  In  this  respect 
it  is  a  brief  abstract  of  public  sentiment,  of  the  dominant 
passion  of  the  hour  and  country  in  which  it  is  born ;  itseli 
a  natural  work,  the  result  of  the  mighty  forces  that  guide 
or  stimulate  the  conflict  of  human  activities. 

This  instrument  thus  fashioned  has  been  roaming 
through  history,  especially  among  literary  works,  and 
also  a  long  time  among  works  of  art, — those  only  whicn 
through  their  strong  relief  hand  down  to  posterity  the 
being,  forms,  and  personality  of  man  through  the  engrav- 
ings and  museums  of  France,  Belgium,  Holland,  England, 
and  Germany.  Taking  a  comparative  view  of  its  impres- 
sions, first  and  above  all  come  the  heroic  or  ungovernable 
forces,  that  is  to  say,  the  colossal  types  of  Michael 
Angelo  and  Rubens ;  then  the  beauty  of  the  voluptuous- 
ness and  joyous  feeling  of  the  Venetian  decorative  art ; 
and  then  in  the  same,  if  not  to  a  greater  degree,  the 
tragic  and  piercing  sentiment  of  truth,  the  intensity  of  a 
Buffering  visionary  imagination,  the  bold  transcripts  of 
human  squalor  and  misery,  and  the  poesy  of  a  misty 
northerly  light  in  the  works  of  Rembrandt 

This  is  the  instrument  I  now  bear  with  me  into  Italy ; 
this  is  the  colour  of  its  lens ;  that  colouring  is  to  be 
taken  into  account  in  the  descriptions  given.  I  distrust  it 


n  INTBODUCTIOff. 

somewhat  myself  and  have  endeavoured  to  provide  othei 
lentes  as  occasion  calls  for  them,  which  is  possible,  inas- 
much as  education,  history,  and  criticism  furnish  the 
means  for  so  doing.  Through  reflection,  study  and  habit 
we  succeed  by  degrees  in  producing  sentiments  in  our 
minds  of  which  we  were  at  first  unconscious ;  we  find  that 
another  man  in  another  age  of  necessity  felt  differently 
from  ourselves ;  we  enter  into  his  views,  and  then  into  his 
tastes,  and  as  we  place  ourselves  at  his  point  of  view  com- 
prehend him,  and,  in  comprehending  him,  find  ourselves  a 
little  less  superficial 


CONTENTS, 


BOOK  I. 
THE  ROUTE  AND  THE  AERIVAL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FAU 

MARSEILLES  AND  PROVENCE— THE  SEA— CIVITA  VECCHIA     .  ] 

CHAPTER  H. 

BOMB — THE  COLOSSEUM — ST.  PETER'S — A  NIGHT  PROMENADE — 
THE  FORUM— FROM  ROME  TO  NAPLES— TYPICAL  CHARACTERS   8 


BOOK  H. 

NAPLES. 


CHAPTER  L 

CLIMATE  AND  COUNTRY— THE  STREETS  OF  NAPLES— CHURCHES— 
THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  MARTINO 22 

CHAPTER  IL 

POZZUOLI  AND  BALE  — CA8TELLAMARE  —  SORRENTO  —  HOMERIC 
LIFE       .  34 

CHAPTER  III. 

HKRCULANEUM    AND    POMPEII — THE    CITY    OF    ANTIQUITY,    AND 

us  LIFE 45 


Till  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

PAOl 

THE  MUSEO  BORBONICO — THE  PAINTINGS,  SCULPTURES,  MANNERS, 
CUSTOMS,  AND  RELIGION  OP  ANTIQUITY — MODERN  PICTURES,  AND 
XHE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY 63 

CHAPTER  V. 
SOCIAL  STATE— POLITICS,  SCIENCE,  AND  RELIGION.          ...     65 

CHAPTER  VL 

INTELLECTUAL  AND   OTHEK   TBAITS — SAK    CARLO    AND    SAN    CAE- 


CHAPTER  VIL 

CAPUA — LANDSCAPE — MONTE  CASINO     .  •  •  •          » 


80 


BOOK  m. 

SOME. 

CHAFFER  L 

TEX  GENERAL  ASPECT  OF  EOME — MASS  AI  XHE   8ISUNE    CHAPEL 

STREETS   OF  ROME 88 


CHAPTER  TT, 

ANTIQUE  STATUES — THE  CAPITOL — GREEK  NUDITY  AND  GYMNAS- 
TIC LIKE — MORAL  DIFFERENCES  INDICATED  AND  PRODUCED  BY 
CHANGE  OF  COSTUME — BUSTS — PICTURES — THE  FORUM  .  .  107 

CHAPTER  IIL 

THE  VATICAN — THE  IDEAL  OF  MAN  AMONG  THE  ANCIENTS — THB 
KELEAGEB,  THE  APOLLO  BELVEDERE,  THE  LAOCOON,  AND  THE 
MKRCUEY— THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TIBER 11 W 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  PANTHEON,   AND  THE  BATHS  OF  CARACALLA  .          .          ,  ISf 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAPTER  V. 

BAM 

PAINTING — RAPHAEL,  FIRST  EXPERIENCES—  DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN 
JKA8EL  AND  MURAL  PAINTING — TRANSFORMATION  OF  THE  HU- 
MAN MIND  IN  THE  INTERVAL  BETWEEN  THE  SIXTEENTH  AND 
NINETEENTH  CENTURIES — THE  NUDE  OR  DRAPED  FIGURE  THE 
CENTRE  OF  ART  IN  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURT .  ,  .  .  141 

CHAPTER  VL 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE  FARNESE  PALACE — THE  MUSEUMS  OF  THE  VATICAN  AND  THE 
CAPITOL — THE  ACADEMY  OF  ST.  LUKE 158 

CHAPTER  VIEL 

THIS  MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE — PHYSICAL 
ACTION  AND  PICTURESQUE  POMP — IMAGES  AND  NOT  IDEAS  FILL 
THE  MINDS  OF  THIS  EPOCH 17* 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO — HIS  LIFE,  CHARACTER,  AND  WORKS — THE  SIS- 
TINE  CHAPEL — THE  LAST  JUDGMENT  .  .  186 


BOOK  IV. 
VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHEB. 


CHAPTER  L 

THE  ITALIAN  GRAND  SEIGNEUR  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTUBT 
— THE  MANNERS  OF  THE  PALACE  AND  THE  ANTE-CHAMBER— 
THE  VILLA  ALBANI — THE  VILLA  BORGHESE  .  .  .  .104 

CHAPTER  H. 

THE    VILLA  LTTDOVISI — STATUES— THE    AURORA    OF    GUERCINO 

LANDSCAPES — NEPOTISM  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CKNTURY — THE 
DECADENCE  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY — THE  PALACE  AT 
THE  PRESENT  DAT  .  .  204 


x  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IIL 

FAUB 
THB  FARltESB  PALACE — THE   8CIARRA,   DORIA,   BORGHKSE,   BAR- 

BERINI,     AND     ROSPIGLIOSI      PALACES      AND     GALLERIES — THE 
PAINTINGS   OF   THE  SIXTEENTH  AND   SEVENTEENTH   CENTURIES  211 

CHAPTER  IV. 

CHURCHES — CHARACTEB  OF  THE  CHURCHES  OF  ROME— THE  PIETT 
OF  THE  KIDDLE  AGES  AND  THE  DECORATION  OF  THE  SIX- 
TEENTH CENTURY — STRASBOURG  CATHEDRAL — TRANSFORMATION 
OF  CATHOLICISM  AFTER  THE  RENAISSANCE — THE  GESU — THE 
JESUITICAL  SPIRIT — TASTE  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTUBY  .  234 

CHAPTER  V 

BANTA  MARIA  DEL  POPOLO — THE  CAPUCHIN  CONVENT — SANTA 
MARIA  DEGLI  ANGELI— THE  CARTHUSIAN  CONVENT — RELICS — 
SANTA  MARIA  DELLA  VITTORIA — ST.  THERESA  BY  BERNINI — 
DEVOTION  AND  LOVE  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY— THE 
QUIBINAL  GARDENS 248 

CHAPTER  VL 

PROMENADES — SANTA  MARIA  MAGGIORE — SAN  GIOVANNI — SCENERl 
— THE  STREETS  OF  ROME — SANTA  MARIA  IN  TRASTEVERE — SAN 
CLEMENTS — SAN  VBANCISCO  A  RIPA  .  .  .  ,  .  260 


BOOK  V. 
SOCIETY. 

CHAPTER  L 

m  MTDDLK  CLASSES— MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS — LOYB          .          .  171 
CHAPTER  IL 

«M  NOBILITY — THB  SALOONS — INDOLENCE — THB  CAMPAGNA — TH1 
VILLA  OF  POPB  JULIUS  III. — THE  PORTA  PRIMA — FRASCATJ— 
TUSCULUM — THE  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI— GROTTO  FERRATA  281 


CONTENTS*  xi 

CHAPTER  III. 

MM 
fHl  ntOPLV — THB   ADMINISTRATION — OPINIONS   .  .  .  .298 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   80YERNMENT,   ITS   SUPPORT  AND   US   INSTINCT*    .  ,  .308 

CHAPTER  V. 

RELIGION — THB  '  UNITA  CATTOLICA  ' — BOOKS — OBSERVANCES — THB 
COUNTRY — ARICCIA — GENZANO — ALBANO — SCENERY  .  .  .  3 1C 

CHAPTER  VI. 

OTATE  OF  MINDS— CONJECTURES  ON  THE  FUTURE  OF  CATHOLICISM  839 

CHAPTER  VIL 

HOLT  WEEK— PALM  SUNDAY— ST.  PETER'S— THE  MISERERE  AT 
THE  SISTINM  CHAPEL— PALE8TRINA— THE  PAULINE  CHAPEL  .  841 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

OOOD  FRIDAY— THE  PAPACY  IN  ST.  PETER'S— THE  TOMBS  OF 
THE  POPES— EASTER  SUNDAY — CEREMONY— THE  POPE — THB 
AUDIENCE— PEASANTS—  THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  OF  ITALY  .  .  840 


ITALY. 


BOOKL 
THE  ROUTE  AND   THE  ARRIVAL. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MARSEILLES  AND  PROVENCE — THE  SEA — CIVITA  TECCHIA. 

Marseilles  and  Provence. — Here  already  is  the  true 
southern  country;  it  begins  with  the  Cevennes.  A 
northern  soil  is  always  moist  and  sombre ;  even  in  win- 
ter the  fields  remain  green  :  here  all  is  grey  and  neutral ; 
the  mountains  are  bare,  the  rocks  are  white,  and  the 
broad  plains  dry  and  stony ;  scarcely  any  trees  are  vis- 
ible, save  on  the  slopes  and  in  the  hollows  strewed  with 
boulders,  where  the  pale  olive  and  the  almond-tree  find 
shelter  for  their  meagre  stems.  Colour  is  wanting  ;  it 
is  a  pure,  delicate,  elegant  drawing,  like  a  background 
of  I'erugino's.  The  country  resembles  a  great  woven 
fabric,  grey,  striped  and  uniform ;  but  the  mild  pale  sun 
yields  genial  light  from  the  blue  above,  and  a  gentle 
breeze  flutters  about  the  cheeks  like  a  caress.  This  is 
not  winter,  but  rather  an  anticipation  of  summer, 


8        THE  ROUTE  AND  THE  ARRIVAL. 

Suddenly  all  the  magnificences  of  the  south  appear : 
the  Etang  de  Berre,  a  glittering  blue  pool,  motionless  in 
its  cup  of  white  mountains ;  then  the  sea,  extending  into 
infinity,  with  its  broad,  placid,  radiant  surface,  as  lustrous 
and  delicate  in  colour  as  the  most  charming  violet  or  a 
blooming  periwinkle.  All  around  arise  striated  moun- 
tains,  seeming  to  glow  with  seraphic  splendour,  so  much 
light  is  there  about  them — a  light  so  imprisoned  within 
their  recesses  by  distance  and  atmosphere,  as  apparently 
to  enrobe  them.  A  conservatory  flower  in  a  marble  vase 
— the  pearly  veins  of  an  orchis  with  the  pale  velvet  on 
the  margin  of  its  leaves,  and  the  purple  pollen  slumbering 
in  its  calyx — has  not  a  tenderer  or  more  vivid  hue. 

In  the  evening,  along  the  margin  of  the  sea,  a  gentle 
breeze  cooled  our  brows;  the  odour  of  green  trees  diffused 
itself  on  all  sides  like  a  summer  perfume ;  the  transparent 
water  resembled  a  liquid  emerald;  the  scarcely  visible 
mountain  forms,  half  lost  in  obscurity,  and  the  grand 
lines  of  the  coast,  were  always  imposing,  while  on  the 
horizon  a  glowing  band  of  orange  revealed  the  magnifi- 
cence of  sunset. 

On  board  at  ten  o'clock. — This  quiet  port,  this  broad 
glittering  black  basin,  is  striking.  Its  dark  masts  and 
rigging  furrow  it  with  lines  still  darker.  Three  lanterns 
glimmer  in  the  distance  like  stars,  their  long  train  of  light 
trembling  on  the  water  like  a  necklace  of  pearls  unrolling 
itself.  The  vessel  glides  from  its  moorings  slowly  like  a 
colossal  saurian,  or  some  snorting  antediluvian  monster, 
while  the  water  swells  and  heaves  in  its  wake,  as  if  dis- 
turbed by  the  monstrous  fins  and  webbed  feet  of  some 
gigantic  frog.  The  screw  beneath  bores  the  sea  inde- 
fatigably  with  its  flanges,  and  the  ship  trembles  in  every 
limb.  This  powerful  monotonous  plunging  continues  all 
night,  suggesting  an  enslaved  plesiosaurus  substituted 
for  the  labor  of  man. 


TUB  SEA.  3 

At  sea. — The  weather  this  morning  is  calm,  mild,  and 
misty.  The  little  crested  waves  stud  the  slaty  fog  with 
brightness ;  dripping  clouds  hang  around  the  four  corners 
of  the  horizon.  What  beauty  a  gleam  of  sunshine  would 
impart  to  this  dull  velvety  surface !  I  have  seen  this  sky 
and  sea  in  their  summer  splendour.  Words  can  feebly 
express  the  beauty  of  the  boundless  azure  expanding 
on  all  sides  into  infinite  space !  What  a  contrast  when 
compared  with  the  dangerous  and  lugubrious  Atlantic  I 
This  sea  might  be  compared  to  a  happy  beautiful  girl, 
robed  in  lustrous  silk  fresh  from  the  loom.  Blue,  radiant 
blue ;  blue  above  and  blue  below,  and  extending  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  horizon,  with  fringes  of  silver 
here  and  there  dotting  its  moving  gloss.  One  became 
Pagan  again  on  feeling  the  piercing  glance,  the  virile 
energy,  the  serenity  of  the  magnificent  sun,  the  great  god 
of  air.  How  he  triumphed  above  us  !  How  he  launched 
his  handfuls  of  arrows  on  this  immense  waste  I  How  the 
waves  flashed  and  quivered  beneath  this  fiery  hail !  One 
thought  of  the  Nereids,  of  the  sounding  conchs  of  Tritons, 
of  blonde  dishevelled  tresses,  and  white  bodies  streaming 
with  foam.  The  heart  seemed  to  be  again  stirred  with 
the  ancient  religion  of  beauty  and  joyoueness  on  thua 
encountering  the  landscape  and  climate  that  nourished  it. 

Ever  the  same  humid  gloomy  sky.  The  sea  rolls 
slowly,  half  red  and  half  blue,  reflecting  that  dark  purple 
hue  so  often  seen  in  deep  slate  quarries.  Occasionally 
the  sun  glimmers  through  the  clouds,  and  illuminates  a 
portion  of  the  distance. 

Towards  evening  snowy  peaks  come  in  sight,  then  a 
long  range  of  mountains,  and,  as  we  near  these,  the  rugged 
embossed  slopes  of  the  brown  coast  of  Corsica.  This 
coast  is  grand  on  account  of  its  simplicity,  but  such 
nudity  is  sterile.  Involuntarily  one  recites  Homer's 
vernes  on  the  '  Ocean  infecund  and  indomitable.'  This 

p  2 


4         THE  ROUTE  AND  THE  ARRIVAL. 

grand  wild  element  is  valueless ;  man  cannot  tame  it, 
subdue  it,  or  accommodate  it  to  his  usages. 

Civtta  Vecchia.  —  The  vessel  comes  to  anchor. 
Through  the  grey  dawn  a  round  mole  suddenly  appears, 
and  then  a  crenelated  line  of  buildings,  and  flat  red  roofa 
clearly  defined  above  the  tranquil  surface.  Seaward  a 
sailing  vessel  approaches,  careening  over  on  its  side  like  a 
soaring  bird.  This  is  all — two  or  three  black  lines  on  a 
light  background,  with  the  freshness  of  the  sea  and  the 
morning — and  you  have  a  marine  pencil-sketch  by  some 
great  master. 

On  entering  the  town  the  impression  changes ;  it  is  a 
squalid  city,  made  up  of  infected  lanes  and  public  build- 
ings, displaying  the  vulgarity  and  plainness  of  the  uses 
to  which  they  are  applied.  Some  of  these  lanes  are 
about  five  feet  wide,  and  the  houses  lean  against  each 
other,  supported  by  transverse  beams.  No  sunshine  ever 
finds  its  way  into  them;  the  mud  is  like  glue.  An  en- 
trance sometimes  consists  of  an  old  mediaeval  construc- 
tion, with  a  portal  and  a  sort  of  embrasure.  You  advance 
hesitatingly  into  this  den ;  on  either  side  are  dark  holes, 
where  filthy  children,  girls  with  tangled  hair,  are  drawing 
on  stockings,  and  hurriedly  trying  to  fasten  on  their  rags. 
No  sponge  has  ever  touched  the  window-panes,  nor  a 
broom  the  stairs ;  they  are  fairly  impregnated  with  human 
filth;  it  oozes  out;  and  a  sour  putrescent  odour  greets  the 
nostrils.  Many  of  the  windows  seem  to  be  crumbling, 
and  disjointed  steps  cling  around  leprous  walls.  In  the 
cross  streets,  strewed  with  mire,  orange-peel  and  garbage, 
a  few  shops  lower  than  the  pavement  expose  yawning 
apertures  with  various  phantoms  moving  about  in  them ; 
a  butcher  displaying  bloody  meat  and  quarters  of  veal  on 
his  stall ;  a  fruiterer  looking  like  a  ferocious  bravo ;  a  big, 
dirty,  brazen-faced  monk,  with  his  hands  on  his  paunch, 
laughing  vociferously  j  a  tinker  nobly  draped,  and  as  grav« 


C1V1TA  VECCHIA.  5 

and  proud  as  a  prince,  besides  various  expressive  figures 
standing  about,  many  of  them  handsome,  almost  all  ener- 
getic and  gesticulating  like  actors,  often  with  a  sort  of 
comic  gaiety  and  extreme  readiness  in  assuming  gro- 
tesque attitudes.  The  French  on  board  our  vessel,  some 
twenty  young  soldiers,  are  much  more  amiable-looking 
and  less  demonstrative,  they  being  of  a  less  vigorous  and 
finer  race. 

Here  lived  poor  Stendhal  for  so  long  a  period,  ever 
with  his  eyes  turned  towards  Paris.  '  It  is  my  misfor- 
tune,' he  wrote,  *  to  find  nothing  here  to  excite  thought. 
What  diversion  can  I  find  among  five  thousand  Civita 
Vecehia  traders !  There  is  nothing  poetic  here  but  the 
twelve  hundred  convicts,  whom  I  cannot  possibly  take 
into  my  society.*  The  women  have  but  one  idea,  whict 
is  to  get  their  husbands,  if  possible,  to  present  them  with 
a  French  bonnet.'  A  friend  of  Stendhal,  an  archaeolo- 
gist, who  under  this  title  passed  for  a  Liberal,  for  twenty 
years  has  been  unable  to  obtain  permission  to  stay  three 
hours  at  Rome. 

Here  and  there,  in  the  streets  and  squares,  southern 
life  is  visible.  Tinkers  and  travelling  shoemakers  are  at 
work  in  the  open  air.  Barefooted  little  scamps,  with 
begrimed  mouths,  are  playing  cards  in  crazy  carts.  At 
the  angle  of  a  foul  alley,  under  a  lamp,  sits  a  Madonna, 
in  the  midst  of  wax-candles,  flowers,  crowns,  and  painted 
hearts,  smiling  under  a  glass  case,  and  honoured  with  the 
sign  of  the  cross  by  all  who  pass  her.  Two  fishermen 
arrive  with  three  baskets,  and  improvise  a  market,  when 
immediately  twenty  curious  figures  assemble  around  them 
as  if  at  a  spectacle,  all  smoking  and  gesticulating,  while 
A  threadbare  class  carry  off  fish  in  their  handkerchiefs. 
A  number  of  ragged  vagabonds,  and  tall  wags  draped  in 

•  The  Roman  State  prison  for  criminals,  the  bagnio,  is  situated  at  Civita 
vocchia 


6  THE   ROUTE   AND   THE   ARRIVAL. 

brown  ana  black  mantles,  hang  about  the  street-corners, 
inhaling  the  steam  cf  frying-pans,  and  contemplating  the 
sea.  Certainly  for  the  last  ten  years  they  must  have  slept 
on  the  ground  in  their  clothes — imagine  their  tint,  while 
their  toes  project  outside  their  worn-out  shoes.  Their 
pantaloons  have  evidently  passed  through  five  or  six 
colours,  from  light  to  dark,  from  grey  to  black,  from  black 
to  brown,  and  from  brown  to  yellow  ;  and  so  full  of  holes 
and  so  often  patched  are  they,  one  would  scarcely 
know  where  to  find  a  more  composite  object.  They, 
however,  are  indifferent.  They  saunter  about  philosophi- 
cally, like  sages  and  epicureans,  living  as  they  best  can, 
feeding  their  senses  on  beautiful  objects,  and  diverting 
themselves  with  idle  conversation,  leaving  all  work  to 
blockheads.  At  the  landing-place  an  hour  and  a  half 
was  consumed  m  registering  twenty-five  trunks ;  out  of 
six  men  employed,  two  worked,  while  the  rest  looked  on 
and  talked.  It  was  necessary  to  make  a  show  of  anger, 
in  order  to  expedite  matters.  There  was  no  order  what- 
ever. A  trunk  passed  quickly  through  their  hands  pro- 
portionately to  the  rude  tone  of  voice  in  which  the  owner 
pronounced  bestia.  The  more  bountiful  and  beautiful 
Nature  is  the  less  is  man  compelled  to  be  active  and  neat. 
A  Hollander,  or  a  peasant  of  the  Black  Forest,  would 
feel  miserable  in  a  house  not  clean  and  agreeable  to  him ; 
here  labour  and  tidiness  are  superfluous,  Nature  taking  it 
upon  herself  to  provide  both  comfort  and  beauty. 

From  Civita  Vecchia  to  Rome. — We  pass  along  the 
borders  of  the  sea,  stretching  away,  smooth  and  of  a  deep 
blue,  into  illimitable  space,  and  with  a  feeble  monotonous 
murmur;  to  the  right,  for  leagues  ahead,  an  unbroken 
line  of  foam  forms  a  broad  white  fringe  on  the  sand.  The 
same  great  veil  of  mist  still  overhangs  the  Cnmpagna. 

To  the  left,  hills  rise  and  fall  and  succeed  each 
other,  covered  with  delicate  tints  of  faded  green,  as  if 


CIV1TA   VECCIIIA.  7 

softened  with  a  brush.  There  are  no  trees  on  them  that 
could  be  called  such,  but  shrubs  like  the  broom,  juniper 
mastic,  gorze,  and  other  evergreens.  All  this  is  a  desert' 
scarcely  during  the  entire  journey  do  we  see  more  than  an 
occasional  farmhouse  at  long  intervals  by  the  side  of  a 
hollow.  Streams  descend  in  tortuous  beds,  and  discharge 
themselves  in  pools,  which,  repelled  by  the  sea,  render 
the  country  unhealthy  and  hostile  to  man.  A  few  horses 
and  some  black  long-horned  cattle  graze  on  the  slopes : 
one  might  imagine  himself  on  the  landes  of  Gascony. 
From  time  to  time  a  wood  of  tall,  grey,  denuded  trees 
appears  by  the  side  of  the  cars  as  melancholy-looking  as 
BO  many  invalids. 

Here  at  last  is  the  Campagna  of  Home,  consisting  of 
bare  hills,  without  trees  or  shrubs,  and  a  waste  of  decayed 
and  sun-burnt  vegetation  ;  no  aqueducts  yet — nothing  to 
break  up  the  lugubrious  monotony.  Now  we  come  to 
gardens,  and  hedges  of  blackthorn  tied  together  with 
large  white  reeds,  vegetable  plots,  domes  on  the  horizon, 
an  old  brick  rampart  and  blackened  bastions,  then  a  long 
aqueduct  like  an  immense  wall,  and  Santa  Maria  Mag- 
giore  with  its  two  domes  and  campanile.  At  the  station 
is  a  crowd  of  cab-drivers,  guides,  and  conductors,  hooting 
and  appropriating  to  themselves  your  baggage  and  person 
by  main  force ;  also  a  moving  throng  of  anomalous  faces 
— English,  American,  German,  French,  and  Russian — 
crowding  and  pushing  each  other,  and  obtaining  informa- 
tion in  all  sorts  of  accents  and  dialects.  On  the  way  to 
the  hotel,  things  look  as  they  do  in  a  provincial  town — 
neglected,  irregular,  odd,  and  dirty,  with  narrow,  muddy 
streets  lined  with  rickety  tenements  and  attics,  greasy 
cooking  going  on  in  the  open  air,  clothes  drying  on  ropes, 
lofty  monumental  edifices  with  trellised  windows  and 
h'ige  gratings  and  crossbars  bolted  together  and  multi- 
plied, giving  one  an  idea  of  prisons  and  fortresses. 


CHAPTER  IT. 

KOIIZ — THE     COLOSSEUM — ST.     PETER'S — A     NIGHT     PROMENADE 

THE    FORUM FROM    ROME    TO    NAPLES TYPICAL    CHARACTERS. 

HAVING  one  day  in  Rome,  I  determined  to  see  the 
Colosseum  and  St.  Peter's.  It  is  certainly  unwise  to 
note  our  first  impressions,  but  since  we  have  them,  why 
not  do  so  ?  A  traveller  should  regard  himself  as  a  ther- 
mometer, and,  right  or  wrong,  I  shall  do  to-morrow  as  1 
do  to-day. 

First,  as  to  the  Colosseum.  All  that  I  saw  from  my 
cab  windows  was  repulsive — infected  streets,  wet  and 
dry  linen  suspended  on  ropes,  old  oozing  tenements 
blackened  and  disfigured  with  slimy  secretions,  heaps  of 
offal,  shops  and  tattered  costumes;  and  all  this  in  a 
drizzling  rain.  The  ruins,  the  churches,  the  palaces, 
visible  on  the  way,  the  entire  accumulations  of  antiquity, 
§eemed  to  me  like  an  embroidered  coat  made  two  cen- 
turies ago,  but  nevertheless  two  hundred  years  old ;  that 
is  to  say,  tarnished,  faded,  full  of  holes,  and  infested  with 
human  vermin. 

The  Colosseum  appears,  and  there  is  a  sudden  revuV< 
sion,  a  veritable  shock  ;  it  is  grand — nothing  grander 
could  be  imagined.  The  interior  is  quite  deserted; 
profound  silence  reigns:  nothing  but  masses  of  stone, 
pendant  vines,  and  from  time  to  time  the  cry  of  a  bird. 
One  is  content  to  remain  silent  and  motionless.  The  eye 
zanders  repeatedly  over  the  three  vaulted  stories,  and 


ROME  :   THE   COLOSSEUM.  9 

the  enormous  wall  projecting  above  them.  This  then, 
you  say  to  yourself,  was  a  circus  ;  on  these  graded  seats 
sat  a  hundred  and  seven  thousand  spectators,  yelling, 
applauding,  and  threatening  simultaneously;  five  thou- 
sand animals  were  slain,  and  ten  thousand  combatants 
contended  in  this  arena.  You  gather  from  this  some 
idea  of  Roman  life. 

All  this  provokes  hatred  of  the  Romans.  No  peopl 
have  more  abused  man ;  of  all  the  European  races  none 
have  been  so  destructive :  only  in  oriental  countries  do  we 
find  similar  despots  and  devastators.  Here  was  a  mon- 
strous city,  as  extensive  as  London  now  is,  deriving  its 
pleasure  from  spectacles  of  murder  and  suffering;  for 
one  hundred  days,  three  consecutive  months  and  more, 
the  people  resorted  here  daily  to  delight  in  pain  and  death. 
The  distinctive  trait  of  Roman  life,  first  a  triumph  and 
next  the  arena,  is  here  revealed.  They  had  conquered 
a  hundred  nations,  and  found  it  natural  to  turn  their 
victims  to  account. 

Such  a  regimen  necessarily  developed  an  extraordi- 
nary state  of  things,  physical  and  mental.  There  was 
no  labour:  the  people  were  supported  by  public  distri- 
butions ;  they  lived  in  indolence,  promenaded  a  city  oi 
marble,  were  shampooed  in  baths,  gazed  on  mimes  and 
actors,  and  for  amusement  flocked  to  the  contemplation 
of  wounds  and  death.  This  was  their  excitement,  and 
they  devoted  days  to  it.  St.  Augustine  experienced  the 
terrible  attraction,  *nd  has  described  it ;  everything  con- 
trasted with  it  seemed  insipid ;  people  could  not  tear 
themselves  away  from  it.  After  a  certain  time  humanity, 
through  these  compound  habits  of  artists  and  executioners, 
lost  its  equilibrium ;  extraordinary  monsters  were  deve- 
loped, and  not  merely  sanguinary  brutes  and  cool  assas- 
sins, as  in  the  middle  ages,  but  refined  amateurs,  dilettanti, 
\Q  Caligula,  Coramodus,  and  Nero;  morbid  inventors, 


10        THE  EOUTE  AND  THE  AKIUVAL. 

ferocious  poets,  who,  instead  of  writing  out  or  painting 
their  phantasies,  practised  them.  Many  artists  in  modern 
times  resemble  these,  but  fortunately  they  confine  them- 
selves to  the  blackening  of  paper.  Then,  as  now,  extreme 
civilisation  produced  extreme  tension  and  insatiable  de- 
sires* The  first  four  centuries  after  Christ  may  be  re- 
garded as  experience  on  a  grand  scale,  in  which  the  mind 
systematically  sought  excessive  sensation.  Everything 
below  that  was  wearisome. 

When  the  gladiator  from  the  centre  of  the  arena  looked 
around  at  the  hundred  thousand  faces,  and  saw  the  upturned 
thumbs  demanding  his  death,  what  a  sensation  I  It  was 
annihilation,  without  pity  or  reprieve.  The  antique  world 
here  reaches  its  culminating  point,  the  uncontested,  un- 
punished, irremediable  rule  of  force.  As  these  spectacles 
abounded  throughout  the  Roman  empire,  it  is  intelligible 
how  the  universe  with  such  machinery  became  a  blank. 
Hence,  and  by  contrast,  the  existence  of  Christianity. 

One  turns  and  looks  again.  The  beauty  of  the  edifice 
consists  in  its  simplicity.  Its  continuous  line  of  arches 
forms  the  most  natural  and  the  firmest  of  props.  The 
edifice  is  self-supporting,  immovable ;  how  much  superior 
to  a  Gothic  cathedral,  with  its  flying  buttresses  like  the 
claws  of  a  crab  !  The  Roman  was  satisfied  with  bis  idea, 
and  did  not  require  to  adorn  it ;  an  amphitheatre  for  a 
hundred  thousand  men  and  enduring  indefinitely  was 
enough.  Here,  as  in  his  inscriptions  and  despatches,  he 
suppresses  all  pomposity.*  The  fact  proclaims  itself 
loudly,  and  is  understood  by  him  alone.  In  this  con- 
sists his  grandeur ;  it  is  actions  and  not  words — a  sort  oi 
haughty  calm  self-confidence,  a  serene  pride  in,  and  con- 
sciousness of,  being  able  to  do  and  to  bear  more  than 
other  men. 

*  See  the  reply  of  the  Senate  to  the  King  of  Illyria,  after  the  victory  of 
Pydna  (Livy). 


ROME:  THE  COLOSSEUM.  11 

The  Romans,  however,  have  always  lacked  a  sentiment 
of  justice  and  humanity,  and  not  alone  in  antiquity,  but 
also  in  the  Renaissance,  and  in  the  middle  ages.  They 
have  always  comprehended  country  after  the  manner 
of  the  ancients,  namely,  as  a  compact  league,  useful 
in  oppressing  others,  and  in  turning  them  to  profit. 
Moreover,  in  the  middle  ages,  their  country  was  nothing 
but  an  arena,  in  which  the  strong,  through  craft  and  vio- 
lence, sought  to  enslave  the  rest.  A  certain  cardinal,  on 
passing  from  Italy  into  France,  remarked  that  if  Chris- 
tianity was  to  be  known  by  evidences  of  kindness,  cour- 
tesy, and  confidence,  the  Italians  were  not  one  half  as 
Christian  as  the  French.  This  same  objection  always 
arises  in  my  own  mind  on  reading  Stendhal,  their  great 
admirer,  and  whom  I  so  greatly  admire.  You  laud  their 
energy,  their  good  sense,  their  genius ;  you  agree  with 
Alfieri  that  the  plant  man  is  born  more  vigorous  in  Italy 
than  elsewhere  j  you  go  no  further  ;  it  seems  as  if  this  was 
a  complete  eulogy,  and  that  nothing  more  desirable  for  a 
race  could  be  imagined.  This  is  isolating  man  as  artists 
and  naturalists  do  in  order  to  contemplate  a  fine,  power- 
ful, redoubtable  animal,  and  a  bold,  expressive  attitude. 
The  complete  man,  however,  is  man  in  society,  and  who 
developes  himself  therein ;  hence  the  superior  race  is  that 
disposed  to  social  intercourse  and  to  progress.  In  this 
view  gentleness,  social  instincts,  the  chivalrous  sentiment 
of  honour,  phlegmatic  good  sense,  and  rigid,  puritanical 
eelf-r-onsciousness  are  precious  gifts,  and  perhaps  the 
most  precious  of  all.  These  are  the  qualities  which, 
beyond  the  Alps,  have  formed  societies  and  an  order  of 
development ;  it  is  the  lack  of  these  qualities  which, 
on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  has  prevented  the  consolidation 
of  societies,  and  hindered  development.  A  certain  instinct 
of  willing  subordination  is  an  advantage  in  a  nation,  and, 
at  the  same  time  a  defect  in  an  individual ;  and  perhaps 


18  HIE   ROUTE   AXD  TI1E   ARRIVAL. 

it  is  this  power  of  the  individual  which  has  here  closed 
the  avenue  to  nationality. 

In  the  centre  of  the  arena  is  a  cross.  A  man  in  a  blue 
coat,  a  demi-bourgeois,  approaches  it  in  the  midst  of  the 
silence,  removes  his  hat,  folds  his  green  umbrella,  and 
devotedly  imprints  several  fervent  kisses  on  it.  Eael 
kiss  is  attended  with  a  hundred  days'  indulgence. 

The  sky  was  now  getting  clear.  Through  the  arcades 
you  might  see  green  slopes,  lofty  ruins  decked  with  shrub- 
bery, shafts  of  columns,  trees,  heaps  of  rubbish,  a  field 
of  tall  white  reeds,  the  Arch  of  Constantino  placed 
obliquely — all  forming  a  singular  combination  of  cultiva- 
tion and  neglect.  One  encounters  this  everywhere  in 
traversing  Rome — remains  of  monuments,  pieces  of  gar- 
dens, messes  of  potatoes  frying  at  the  bases  of  antique 
columns,  near  the  bridge  of  Horatius  Codes  the  odour 
of  old  codfish,  and  on  the  flanks  of  a  palace,  three  cob- 
blers plying  their  awls,  or  perhaps  a  bed  of  artichokes. 

One  loiters  along,  leisurely  and  indifferently.  I  have 
no  cicerone — a  way  to  see  nothing  and  be  deafened.  I 
ask  my  way  of  a  respectable-looking  man,  who  is  very 
obliging,  and  enters  into  conversation  with  me.  He  has 
been  to  Paris,  and  admires  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and 
the  Arc  de  PEtoile,  and  has  visited  Mabille,  of  which 
his  souvenirs  are  very  profound.  Photographs  of  the 
illustrious  dancers  and  lorettes  of  Paris  abound  in  the  shop- 
windows.  I  find  that  these  ladies  everywhere  in  foreign 
lands  constitute  our  principal  reputation.  'Ah,  how 
pleasant  France  is,  and  how  delightful  to  promenade  the 
Boulevart  MontmartreP 

The  sky  had  now  become  perfectly  clear,  the  atmo- 
sphere warm,  and  the  ground  dry.  From  the  cafe  in 
which  I  breakfasted  (I  have  forgotten  where),  I  could  ob- 
serve about  forty  droll  characters  seated  on  the  side-walk, 
or  leaning  against  the  angles  of  the  houses,  doing  nothing, 


ROME  :   THE   COLOSSEUM. 

some  smoking,  and  others  strolling  up  and  down,  and 
exchanging  comments  on  the  weather,  and  on  passers-by. 
Three  or  four,  with  their  bare  knees  shining  through  their 
rags,  as  dirty  as  old  brooms,  lay  flat  on  the  stones  against 
a  wall,  sleeping.  Half  a  dozen,  the  most  active,  were 
playing  morra,  opening  and  shutting  the  hand,  and  voci- 
ferously calling  the  number  of  fingers  closed  or  extended 
Most  of  them  sat  silent  and  motionless.  Seated  in  a  row 
on  the  edge  of  the  kerbstone,  with  their  hands  supporting 
their  chins,  and  their  blankets  drawn  about  their  thighs, 
they  seemed  content  to  be  comfortably  warm  and  ask  no 
more.  Some,  the  voluptuaries,  were  chewing  lupines, 
at»d,  save  the  masticating  motion  of  their  jaws,  remained 
an  hour  and  more  without  moving  a  muscle. 

Throughout  the  entire  length  of  the  street  the  windows 
are  open,  and  women  and  young  girls  show  themselves  on 
the  balconies,  and  take  the  air.  You  cannot  imagine  a 
more  curious  contrast  than  these  usually  handsome  crea- 
tures, with  vigorous  expressive  heads,  dark  lustrous  hair 
carefully  gathered  above  the  temples,  brilliant  eyes, 
ruddy,  glowing,  healthy  complexions,  clean  clothes,  gilded 
comb,  chains  and  trinkets,  and  all  framed  in  by  the  wall 
of  a  hovel.  Its  plaster  is  cracked,  and  broken,  and  spat- 
tered with  inud,  which  also  runs  black  along  the  entire 
street.  If  you  approach  it,  you  find  a  low  entrance,  its 
unfastened  bars  dripping  with  cobwebs,  and  a  stairway 
winding  around  like  the  gallery  of  a  coal-pit ;  and  in  the 
interior  all  kinds  of  domestic  disorder — piles  of  clothes, 
earthenware  pots,  and  children  scattered  about  with  nothing 
on  them  but  shirts.  These  women  are  by  no  means  dis- 
reputable, but  all  they  care  for  is  to  dress  and  pass  away  the 
afternoon  on  their  balconies  like  peacocks  on  their  perches. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  street,  the  church  of  St.  Peter 
discloses  itself.  Nothing  can  be  more  truly  and  substan- 
tially beautiful  than  this  grand  piazza.  Our  Louvre  and 


14  THE   ROUTE   AND   THE   ARRIVAL. 

Place  de  la  Concorde,  compared  with  it,  are  simply 
operatic  decorations.  The  piazza  rises  upward  from  the 
bottom,  and  is  thus  embraced  in  a  single  glance.  Two 
snperb  colonnades  enclose  its  space  within  their  cres- 
cent curves,  and  in  the  centre  is  an  obelisk,  on  either 
side  of  wliich  two  fountains,  discharging  their  feathery 
spray,  people  its  vastness.  Some  black  specks — men 
eeated,  visitors  ascending,  and  a  file  of  monks — dot  the 
whiteness  of  the  steps,  while  on  the  summit  of  all,  elevated 
upon  a  mass  of  columns,  pediments,  and  statues,  rears  the 
gigantic  dome. 

Whatever  could  be  done  to  conceal  this  dome  has  been 
done.  Looking  at  it  a  second  time,  it  is  clear  that  the 
fa9ade  overwhelms  it.  The  fa£ade  is  that  of  a  pompous 
hutel-de-ville,  the  construction  of  a  period  of  decadence. 
Its  forms  are  so  complicated,  its  columns  so  multiplied, 
go  many  statues  have  been  lavished  upon  it,  and  so  many 
stones  heaped  up,  that  beauty  has  disappeared  beneath 
the  accumulation.  You  enter  the  interior,  and  the  im- 
pression is  the  same.  Two  words  rise  to  the  lips — 
grand  and  theatrical.  There  is  power  in  all  this,  but  it 
is  overdone.  There  is  too  much  gilding  and  sculpture, 
too  many  precious  marbles,  bronzes,  ornaments,  panels, 
and  medallions.  In  my  opinion,  every  work  of  architec- 
ture, as  well  as  every  other  work,  should  be  like  a  cry ;  * 
in  other  words,  a  sincere  expression,  the  extremity  and 
complement  of  a  sensation,  and  nothing  more.  For 
example,  take  this  or  that  Titian  or  Veronese  painted  pur- 
posely  to  occupy  the  eye  with  voluptuousness  or  magni- 
ficence during  some  gay  festival  or  official  ceremony ;  or 
again,  the  interior  of  a  fine  Gothic  cathedral  like  that  ol 
Strasburg,  with  its  enormous  dark  nave  traversed  with 
gloomy  purple,  its  silent  files  of  columns,  its  sepulchral 
crypt  lost  in  shadow,  and  its  luminous  rose  windows, 
*  See  the  author's  'Philosophy  of  Art/  p.  69. 


ROME:   ST.    PETERS.  15 

which,  amidst  all  these  Christian  terrors,  seem  to  afford 
glimpses  into  paradise. 

On  the  ctntrary,  there  is  no  simple,  pure  emotion  in 
this  church.  It  is  a  composition  like  our  Louvre.  Its 
projectors  said,  *  Let  us  erect  the  most  magnificent  and 
imposing  structure  possible.'  Bramante  selected  the  vast 
vaults  of  Constantino's  palace,  and  Michael  Angelo  the 
dome  of  the  Pantheon,  and  out  of  two  pagan  concep- 
tions, one  amplified  by  the  other,  they  extracted  a  Chris- 
tian temple. 

These  arches,  that  cupola,  and  those  mighty  piers,  all 
this  splendid  attire  is  grand  and  magnificent.  Neverthe- 
less there  are  but  two  orders  of  architecture — the  Greek 
and  the  Gothic ;  the  rest  are  simply  transformations,  dis- 
figurements, or  amplifications  of  these. 

The  builders  of  St.  Peter's  were  simply  pagans  in 
fear  of  damnation,  and  nothing  more.  All  that  is  sublime 
in  religion,  such  as  tender  effusions  in  the  presence  of  a 
compassionate  Saviour,  the  fear  of  conscience  before  a 
just  judge,  the  strong  lyric  enthusiasm  of  the  Hebrew 
before  an  avenging  God,  the  expansiveness  of  a  free 
Greek  genius  before  natural  and  joyous  beauty — all 
these  sentiments  were  wanting  in  them.  They  fasted 
on  Friday,  and  combed  the  hair  of  a  saint  to  obtain  his 
good  offices.  As  a  recompense  to  Michael  Angelo,  the 
Pope  granted  him  I  know  not  how  many  indulgences 
on  condition  that  he  made  the  tour  of  the  seven  basilicas 
of  Rome  on  horseback.  Their  passions  were  strong,  and 
their  energy  unfaltering,  and  they  became  great  because 
they  sprung  out  of  a  great  epoch,  but  a  true  religious 
sentiment  they  did  not  possess.  They  revived  ancient 
paganism;  but  a  second  growth  is  never  of  the  same 
value  as  the  first.  Petty  superstition  and  narrow  devo- 
tional hvbits  soon  arose  to  deform  and  render  lifeless  a 
primitive  powerful  inspiration.  We  have  only  to  study 


16         THE  ROUTE  AND  THE  ARRIVAL. 

the  interior  decoration  of  this  church  in  order  to  see  to 
what  vices  they  inclined.  Bernini  has  infested  it  with 
mannered  statues,  who  caper  and  give  themselves  airs. 
All  these  sculptured  giants  kicking  about  with  half- 
modern  faces  and  drapery  pretending  to  be  antique,  pro- 
duce the  most  pitiable  effect  You  say  to  yourself  on 
seeing  that  procession  of  celestial  porters,  '  A  fine  arm, 
well  poised  I  My  brave  monk,  you  stretch  out  your  leg 
vigorously  1  My  good  woman,  your  robe  floats  very  pro- 
perly ;  be  quite  easy  !  My  little  cherubs,  you  fly  aa 
briskly  as  if  on  a  swing  !  My  worthy  friends,  especially 
yourselves,  bronze  cardinals,  and  you,  symbolical  virtues, 
you  are  as  clever  in  your  postu rings  as  so  many 
figurants  !  ' 

I  am  to  visit  Rome  again.  Perhaps  to-day  I  am 
unjust.  But  for  any  sincere  sentiment  here  I  am  sure  it 
is  wanting.  The  rows  of  sentimental  figures  by  Bernini 
on  the  bridge  of  St.  Angelo  put  me  out  of  humour.  They 
assume  to  express  a  tender,  coquettish  air,  and  wriggle 
about  in  Greek  or  Roman  drapery  as  if  in  an  eighteenth 
century  petticoat.  None  of  these  works  are  consistent ; 
three  or  four  different  sentiments  in  them  struggle  for 
mastery.  Let  the  subject  be  a  fasting,  self-flagellating 
ascetic,  and  he  is  assigned  a  shape,  vestments,  and  sym- 
bolry  indicative  of  attachment  to  this  life.  To  me  nothing 
is  more  disagreeable  than  thorns,  haircloth,  and  ecstatic 
eyes  bestowed  on  a  lusty  young  man  or  a  healthy  young 
woman  really  incapable  of  thinking  of  anything  else  but 
love.  It  is  impossible  here  to  feel  any  of  the  tenderness, 
any  of  the  terrors,  associated  with  a  Gothic  cathedral  and 
a  Christian  life  ;  the  churches  are  too  richly  gilded  and  too 
bright,  and  the  arches  and  pillars  are  too  fine.  It  is  im- 
possible to  find  here  that  freshness  of  simple  sensation, 
that  joyousness  and  serenity,  that  smile  of  etenial  youth- 
fulness  which  radiates  from  an  antique  temple  and  iron: 


A  NIGHT  PROMENADE.  17 

Greek  life.  Crosses,  images  of  martyrs,  gold  skeletons, 
and  other  similar  objects,  form  too  many  emblems  of 
mystification  and  mystic  renunciation.  It  is,  in  fine, 
an  immense  spectacle  hall,  the  most  magnificent  in  the 
world,  through  which  a  grand  institution  proclaims  its 
power  to  all  eyes.  It  is  not  a  temple  of  a  religion,  but 
the  temple  of  .1  cult 

A  Nifjlit  Promenade. — The  streets  are  almost  deserted,, 
and  the  scene  is  imposing — tragic,  like  the  drawings  of 
Piranesi.  Few  lights  are  visible,  only  so  many  as  are 
necessary  to  reveal  grand  forms  and  to  intensify  the  dark- 
ness. All  noxious  odours,  dirt,  and  corruption  have  dis- 
appeared. The  moon  shines  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the 
bracing  air,  silence,  and  the  sensation  of  the  unknown, 
excite  and  startle  one. 

How  grand !  is  the  constantly  recurring  idea.  There 
is  nothing  mean,  commonplace,  or  vapid;  there  is  no 
street  or  edifice  that  has  not  character,  some  strong  marked 
character.  No  uniform  compressive  law  has  here  inter- 
posed to  level  and  discipline  structures ;  each  has  arisen 
according  to  its  own  fancy  without  concern  for  the  rest, 
and  the  confusion  is  admirable,  like  the  studio  of  a  great 
artist. 

Antonine's  column  rears  its  shaft  in  the  clear  night  air, 
and  around  it  are  solid  palaces  resting  firmly  on  their 
foundations,  and  without  clumsiness.  That  in  the  back 
ground,  with  its  twenty  illuminated  arcades,  and  its  two 
broad  brilliant  circular  openings,  resembles  an  arabesque 
of  light,  or  some  strange  fancy  creation  blazing  in  the 
obscurity. 

The  fountain  of  the  Piazza  Navona  flows  magnificently 
in  the  stillness,  its  jetting  waters  sending  forth  myriads 
of  the  moon's  bright  beams.  Under  this  vacillating  light, 
amidst  this  incessant  commotion,  its  colossal  statues  seem 
alive :  their  theatrical  appearance  is  effaced ;  one  sees  onty 
C 


10  THE    ROUTE   AND   THE   ARRIVAL. 

giants  writhing  and  leaping  in  the  midst  of  sparks  and 
glittering  bubbles. 

Window  cornices,  vast  projecting  balconies,  and  the 
sculptured  edges  of  the  roofs  cut  the  walls  with  power! ui 
shadows.  Doleful  streets,  right  and  left,  open  like  yawn- 
ing caverns ;  here  and  there  rises  a  black  wall  of  some 
apparently  abandoned  convent  or  tall  edifice  surmounted 
by  a  tower,  seeming  to  be  a  remnant  of  the  middle  ages ; 
lights  glimmer  feebly  in  the  distance,  and  life  seems  to  be 
awallowed  up  in  the  increasing  obscurity. 

Nothing  is  so  formidable  as  these  enormous  monasteries 
and  huge  square  palaces  in  which  no  light  is  gleaming, 
and  which  rise  up  isolated  in  their  inattackable  massive- 
ness  like  fortresses  in  a  besieged  town.  Flat  roofs,  ter- 
races, pediments,  and  other  rigid  and  complicated  iorms, 
cut  the  clear  sky  with  their  sharp  angles,  whilst  below,  at 
their  feet,  the  indistinct  gates,  posts,  and  buttresses  crouch 
together  in  the  shadows. 

One  advances  and  all  appearances  of  life  vanish.  One 
might  imagine  himself  in  a  dead  deserted  city,  the  skele- 
ton remains  of  a  great  nation  suddenly  annihilated.  You 
pass  under  the  arcades  of  the  Colonna  palace,  along  its 
mute  garden  walls,  and  no  longer  see  or  hear  anything 
human ;  only  at  long  intervals,  in  the  depths  of  some 
tortuous  street,  within  the  vague  blackness  of  a  porch 
seeming  to  be  a  subterranean  outlet,  is  a  dying  stieet- 
lamp  flickering  amidst  a  circle  of  yellow  light.  These 
closed  houses  and  high  walls,  extending  their  inhospi- 
table lines  in  the  gloom,  appear  like  ranges  of  reefs  on  the 
sea  coast,  and,  on  emerging  from  their  shadow,  the  broad 
spaces  that  present  themselves,  whitened  with  moonlight, 
geem  like  strands  of  desolate  sand. 

At  length  you  reach  the  basilica  of  Constantino  and  its 
huge  arcades  with  their  head-dress  of  pendent  vines.  The 
eye  follows  their  majestic  sweep,  and  then  suddenly,  be- 


THE   FORUM.  If 

tween  the  openings  above,  rests  on  the  pale  blue,  the 
peculiar  azure  of  night,  like  a  panel  of  crystal  incrusted 
with  sparks.  Advancing  a  few  steps,  the  divine  cupola 
of  the  sky,  the  serene  transparent  ether  with  its  myriads 
of  flashing  brilliants,  discloses  itself  above  the  lonely 
Forum.  You  pass  by  the  side  of  prostrate  columns,  their 
monstrous  shafts  seemingly  magnified.  Leaning  against 
one  of  these  breast  high,  you  contemplate  the  Colosseum. 
The  side  wall,  still  remaining  entire,  rises  black  and 
colossal  at  a  single  bound ;  it  seems  to  incline  over  and 
about  to  fall.  The  moonlight,  so  bright  on  the  ruined 
portion,  allows  you  to  distinguish  the  reddish  hue  of  the 
stones.  In  this  limpid  atmosphere  the  roundness  of  the 
amphitheatre  grows  on  you ;  it  forms  a  sort  of  complete 
and  formidable  being.  In  this  wonderful  stillness  it 
might  be  said  to  exist  alone,  and  that  man,  and  plants,  and 
all  this  fleeting  world,  is  but  a  seeming  show.  I  have 
often  experienced  the  same  sensation  among  mountains. 
They  also  seem  to  be  the  veritable  inhabitants  of  the 
earth ;  in  their  company  the  human  hive  is  forgotten,  and 
under  the  sky,  which  is  their  tent,  one  imagines  himself 
listening  to  the  speechless  communion  of  the  old  monsters, 
the  world's  immutable  possessors  and  eternal  rulers. 

Returning  along  the  base  of  the  Capitol,  the  distant 
basilicas  and  triumphal  arches,  and  especially  the  noble 
and  elegant  columns  of  ruined  temples,  some  solitary  and 
others  collected  in  fraternal  groups,  also  seem  to  be  alive. 
These,  likewise,  are  placid  existences,  and  simple  and 
beautiful  like  the  Greek  ephebos.  Their  Ionian  heads 
bear  an  ornamental  bandlet,  and  the  moon  sheds  its  rays 
on  their  polished  shafts. 

from  ROME  to  NAPLES. — A  long  aqueduct  appears  on 
the  right ;  afar  on  the  horizon  is  a  ruin,  and  here  and 
there  isolated  crumbling  arches;  the  illimitable  dingy 
green  plain  extends  on  all  sides,  undulating  with  a  faded 


20        THE  ROUTE  AND  THE  ARRIVAL. 

carpet  of  dead  vegetation,  washed  by  the  rains,  and  scat- 
tered bj  the  winds.  Purplish  groy  clouds  hang  heavily 
overhead,  and  the  locomotive  discharges  its  rolling  waves 
of  steam  to  commingle  with  them.  The  monotonous 
aqueduct  appears  and  disappears  mile  after  mile  like  a 
dyke  of  rocks  in  a  sea  of  moving  grass.  Towards  the 
east  dark  mountains  bristle,  half-covered  with  snow, 
while  towards  the  west  is  a  cultivated  surface  covered 
with  the  small  tops  and  innumerable  delicate  stems  of 
denuded  fruit  trees;  a  yellow  brook  washes  its  way, 
undermining  the  ground  as  it  passes. 

All  this  is  melancholy,  and  still  more  so  the  stations, 
consisting  of  miserable  wooden  cabins  in  which  a  few 
faggots  are  kindled  for  the  comfort  of  the  passengers. 
Beggars  and  little  boys  throng  the  entrances,  imploring 
a  baiocco  a  demi-baiocco,  a  poor  little  demi-bair  ceo  for 
the  love  of  God,  the  Madonna,  and  St.  Joseph,  and  all 
other  saints  in  the  calendar,  with  the  persistence  and 
shrillness,  the  tender  impatient  whining  which  dogs 
after  a  week  of  starvation  display  on  first  getting 
sight  of  a  bone.  It  is  difficult  to  decide  what  it  is  they 
wear  on  their  feet;  sandals  they  certainly  are  not,  and 
still  less  shoes ;  they  look  like  wrappings  of  cloths  or  old 
scraps  picked  out  of  the  puddles,  and  which  splash  along 
with  them  in  the  mud.  A  bent,  broad-brimmed,  shape- 
lew  hat,  and  breeches,  and  cloak  are  indescribable ; 
nothing  resembles  these  but  kitchen  towels  and  infected 
rags  piled  up  in  junk-shops  to  make  paper  with. 

I  have  studied  a  good  many  countenances,  and  my 
memory  divells  on  those  I  have  seen  since  I  came  intc 
Italy.  All  these  range  themselves  under  three  or  four 
distinct  types.  First  there  is  the  pretty  and  delicate  cameo 
hoad,  perfectly  regular  and  spirituclle,  with  a  lively  alert 
air,  betokening  a  capacity  to  comprehend  readily,  and  to 
inspire  love  as  well  as  to  express  it.  There  is,  also.  tl« 


TYPICAL  CHARACTERS.  21 

square  head,  planted  on  a  solid  trunk,  with  large  sensual 
lips,  and  an  expression  of  coarse  gaiety,  either  grotesque 
or  satiric.  There  is  the  lean,  dark,  sunburnt  animal, 
whose  face  has  no  longer  any  flesh  on  it,  wholly  con- 
sisting of  strong  features,  of  an  incredible  expression, 
with  flaming  eyes  and  crisp  hair,  similar  to  a  volcano 
about  to  explode.  There  is,  finally,  the  handsome  and 
stout  man,  vigorously  built  and  muscular  without  clum- 
siness, of  a  rich  glowing  complexion,  who  regards  you 
calmly  and  fixedly,  powerful  and  complete,  who  seems 
to  await  action  and  self-expansion,  but  who,  in  waiting, 
is  not  prodigal  of  himself,  and  remains  passive. 

This  road  and  landscape,  all  the  way  to  Naples,  are 
certainly  beautiful,  but  under  a  clear  sky  and  in  sum- 
mer. There  are  many  fine,  varied,  half-wooded  moun- 
tains, not  high,  and  yet  grand ;  sometimes  a  grey  tower 
appears,  covering  a  hilltop,  and  as  round  as  a  bee-hive. 
But  forms  are  all  confused  by  rain  and  fog,  and  winter 
spoils  everything ;  there  is  nothing  green ;  red  dry 
leaves  hang  to  the  trees  like  old  rags,  and  muddy  tor- 
rents furrow  the  ground.  It  is  a  corpse  instead  of  a 
beautiful,  blooming  girl. 


BOOK   II. 

NAPLES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CLIMATE  AND  COUNTRY — THE  STREETS  OP  NAPLES CHURCKM— 

THE   CONVENT   OF   SAN   MARTINO. 

Naples:  February  20. — Another  climate,  another  sky, 
almost  another  world.  On  approaching  the  bay  this 
morning,  as  the  view  expanded  and  the  horizon  disclosed 
itself,  a  sudden  brightness  and  splendour  was  all  that  was 
visible.  In  the  distance,  under  a  vapoury  veil  over- 
hanging the  sea,  the  mountains  arose  one  above  another, 
and  spread  out  as  luminous  and  as  soft  as  clouds.  The 
sea  advanced  in  white  rolling  billows,  and  the  sun, 
pouring  down  its  flaming  rays,  converted  it  into  a  track- 
way of  molten  metal. 

I  passed  half  an  hour  in  the  Villa  Reale,  a  promenade 
skirting  the  shore,  planted  with  oaks  and  evergreens.  A 
few  young  trees,  transpierced  with  light,  open  their  tender 
little  leaves,  and  are  already  blooming  with  yellow  blos- 
w>ms  Statues  of  beautiful  nude  youths — Europa  on  the 
Bull—  incline  their  white  marble  forms  amidst  the  light 
green  verdure.  Sunshine  and  shadow  vary  the  surface  of 
the  grass,  and  climbing  vines  interlace  themselves  around 
the  columns.  Here  and  there  glows  the  bright  blue  of 
fresh  flowers,  their  delicate  velvety  cups  trembling  in  the 


CLIMATE  AND   COUNTRY.  25 

balmy  breeze  that  comes  to  them  through  the  trunks  of 
the  oaks.  Both  sea  and  atmosphere  are  beneficent. 
What  a  contrast,  when  one  recalls  the  ocean  and  ita 
coasts,  our  cliffs  of  Gascony  and  Normandy  beaten  by 
winds  and  lashed  by  storms,  with  stunted  trees  sheltering 
themselves  in  the  hollows,  and  bushes  and  the  shorn  grass 
clinging  so  miserably  to  the  hillsides  I 

Here  vegetation  is  nourished  by  the  neighbouring 
waves ;  you  feel  the  freshness  and  mildness  of  the  atmo- 
sphere which  caresses  and  expands  it.  You  forget 
yourself  as  you  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  whispering 
leaves  and  contemplate  their  moving  shadows  on  the 
sand.  Meanwhile,  a  few  paces  off,  the  sea  sends  forth 
its  deep  roar,  as  its  foaming  crests  break  on  the  beach, 
and  subside  in  snowy  circles.  The  mist  vanishes  before 
the  sun ;  through  the  foliage  appears  Vesuvius  and  ita 
neighbours,  the  entire  mountain  range  in  clear  relief,  and 
of  a  pale  violet  hue,  which,  as  the  sun  declines,  becomes 
tenderer  and  tenderer,  until,  finally,  the  lightest  tint  of 
mauve,  or  the  corolla  of  a  flower,  is  less  exquisite.  The 
sky  is  now  serene,  and  the  calm  sea  becomes  a  sea  of  azure. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  this  scene.  Lord  Byron 
rightly  says  that  the  beauties  of  art  and  nature  are  not  to 
be  placed  on  the  same  level.  A  picture  is  always  less, 
and  a  landscape  always  more,  than  our  imagination  painta 
it.  How  beautiful ! — what  more  can  be  said  ?  How  grai  id, 
how  lovely  !  the  heart  and  the  senses  thrill  with  pleasure : 
nothing  could  be  more  voluptuous,  nothing  nobler.  How 
can  one  toil  and  produce  in  the  presence  of  all  this  beauty  ? 
It  is  of  no  avail  to  possess  fine  residences,  and  to  labo- 
riously fashion  our  vast  machines  called  Constitution  or 
Church,  and  to  seek  pleasure  in  vanity  and  ostentation. 
Let  us  open  our  eyes  and  live,  for  we  have  the  flower  of 
life  in  a  glance  1 

I  sat  down  on  a  bench.     Evening  was  coming  on,  and 


24  NAPLES. 

in  watching  the  fading  tints  it  seemed  as  if  I  were  in  the 
Elysian  fields  of  the  ancient  poets.  Elegant  forms  of 
trees  defined  themselves  clearly  on  the  transparent  azure, 
Leafless  sycamores  and  naked  oaks  seemed  to  be  smiling, 
the  exquisite  serenity  of  the  sky,  crossed  with  their  web 
of  light  branches,  apparently  communicating  itself  to 
them.  They  did  not  appear  to  be  dead  or  torpid  as  with 
us,  but  seemed  to  be  dozing,  and,  at  the  touch  of  the  balmy 
breeze,  ready  to  open  their  buds  and  confide  their  blossoms 
to  the  coming  spring.  Here  and  there  shone  a  glimmer- 
ing star,  and  the  moon  began  to  diffuse  its  white  light. 
Statues  still  whiter  seemed  in  this  mysterious  gloom  to  be 
alive ;  groups  of  young  maidens,  in  light  flowing  robes, 
advanced  noiselessly,  like  beautiful  spirits  of  gladness. 
I  seemed  to  be  gazing  on  ancient  Greek  life,  to  compre- 
hend the  delicacy  of  their  sensations,  to  find  a  never- 
ending  study  in  the  harmony  of  these  slender  forms  and 
faded  tints;  colour  and  luminousness  no  longer  seemed 
requisite.  I  was  listening  to  the  verses  of  Aristo- 
phanes, and  beheld  his  youthful  athlete  with  crowned 
brow,  chaste  and  beautiful,  walking  pleasantly  with  a 
sage  companion  of  his  own  years  amongst  poplars  and 
the  flowering  smilax.  Naples  is  a  Greek  colony,  and  the 
more  one  sees  the  more  one  recognises  that  the  taste 
and  the  mind  of  a  people  assume  the  characteristics  of 
its  landscape  and  of  its  climate. 

Towards  eight  o'clock  the  breeze  had  died  away.  The 
firmament  seemed  to  be  of  lapis-lazuli ;  the  moon,  like  an 
immaculate  queen  shining  alone  in  the  azure,  shed  her 
silvery  beams  on  the  broad  waters  and  converted  them 
into  a  glittering  milky  way.  No  words  can  express  the 
grace  and  sweetness  of  the  mountains  enveloped  in  their 
last  tint,  the  vague  violet  of  the  nocturnal  robe.  The 
mole  and  a  forest  of  masts  with  their  deep  dark  reflections 
rendered  thorn  still  more  charming,  while  the  Chiaja  on 


THE  STREETS   OP  NAPLES.  85 

the  right  sweeping  around  the  gulf,  together  with  its 
rows  of  illuminated  houses,  gave  them  a  garland  of 
flame. 

Lamps  glimmer  on  all  sides.  The  people  are  laughing, 
chatting,  and  eating  in  the  open  air.  The  sky  itself  is  a 
fete. 

Through  the  Streets. — What  streets  one  passes  through ! 
Steep,  narrow,  dirty,  and  bordered  at  every  story  with 
overhanging  balconies;  a  mass  of  petty  shops,  open 
slalls,  men  and  women  buying,  selling,  gossiping,  gesticu- 
lating, and  elbowing  each  other;  most  of  them  dwarfed 
and  ugly,  the  women  especially  being  small  and  flat- 
nosed,  their  faces  sallow  and  eyes  brilliant,  and  slovenly 
attired  in  fancy  shawls,  red,  violet,  and  orange  neck  hand- 
kerchiefs—the most  staring  colours  possible — and  mock 
jewelry.  In  the  vicinity  of  the  Piazza  del  Mercato  winds 
a  labyrinth  of  paved  tortuous  lanes  buried  in  dust  and 
strewn  with  orange-peel,  melon-rinds,  fragments  of  vege- 
tables, and  other  nameless  refuse ;  the  crowd  herd  to- 
gether here,  black  and  crawling,  in  the  palpable  shadow, 
beneath  a  strip  of  blue  sky.  All  is  bustling,  eating, 
drinking,  and  bad  odours  ;  it  reminds  one  of  rats  in  a 
rat-trap.  It  is  the  same  bad  air  and  disorder,  and  the 
same  abandonment  that  one  encounters  in  the  bye-streets 
of  London.  Fortunately,  the  climate  is  favourable  to 
pig-styes  and  rags. 

Occasionally  rising  out  of  these  dens  is  the  huge  angle 
or  lofty  gateway  of  some  ancient  edifice,  through  the 
openings  of  which  you  see  wide  staircases  and  balustrades 
ascending  and  intersecting  each  other,  along  with  terraces 
and  colonnades,  exhibiting  the  remains  of  the  grandeur  of 
private  life  under  the  Spanish  dominion.  Here  dwelt  tne 
great  nobles  and  their  gentlemen  retainers,  with  their 
armed  domestics  and  their  carriages,  soliciting  pensions, 
giving  fetes,  and  attending  ceremonies,  they  aloni  con- 


26  NAPLES. 

spicuous  aud  of  importance ;  whilst  in  the  surrounding 
lanes  the  canaille  of  traders  and  artisans  gazed  on  their 
sumptuous  parade  as  pitiful  and  disdained  as  formerly 
were  the  troops  of  serfs  tolerated  around  the  feucK 
donjon. 

Crowds  of  monks  trot  about  the  muddy  streets,  in  san- 
dals or  shoes,  and  without  stockings.  Many  of  these  look 
waggish  and  quizzical,  something  of  a  cross  between 
Socrates  and  Punch.  They  have  evidently  sprung  from  the 
populace.  They  flounder  along  in  their  threadbare  garbs 
with  the  jaunty  air  of  a  common  coachman.  One  of  them 
resting  his  elbows  on  a  balcony  to  look  at  us,  is  a  strap- 
ping cunning  old  fellow,  such  as  Rabelais  paints,  display- 
ing his  flesh  and  importance  somewhat  like  a  curious 
distrustful  hog.  In  better  streets,  again,  you  encounter 
a  better  class  of  ecclesiastics  ;  the  trim  young  abbes  clad 
in  black,  and  as  orderly  as  if  just  out  of  a  bandbox,  and 
with  an  intelligent  and  diplomatic  or  reserved  expres- 
sion. High  and  low,  the  palace  and  the  hovel,  are  both 
supplied  with  them  1 

We  enter  five  or  six  churches  on  our  way.  The 
statues  ot  the  Virgin  here  are  painted  like  barbers' 
models,  besides  being  dressed  in  the  habiliments  of  ladies ; 
one  wears  an  expansive  rose-coloured  frock,  blue  ribbons,  a 
tasteful  coiffure,  and  six  swords  in  her  breast  The  infant 
Jesus  and  the  saints  are  also  attired  in  modern  fashion ; 
some  of  the  latter  wear  actual  cowls,  and  others  ex- 
hibit their  corpse-like  skins  and  bloody  stigmata.  It  is 
impossible  to  appeal  to  the  eye  and  the  senses  mere 
grossly,*  An  old  woman  is  on  her  knees  moaning  before 

*  'A  friend  describes  a  Madonna  he  saw  in  Sicily:  they  had  plated  hei 
breast  with  a  great  ex-voto  of  silver,  representing  the  part  of  the  body  cured 
through  her  intercession.  The  patient  had  had  hemorrhoids.  At  Messina, 
on  the  loth  August,  they  carry  through  the  streets,  in  honour  of  the  Virgin, 
k  machine  composed  of  revolving  hoops,  in  which  little  children,  figuring  ax 
angels,  are  attached,  and  in  which  they  turn  about  during  eeron  hours.  th« 


CHURCHES.  27 

the  Virgin.  Thus  bedizened  and  bleeding,  the  Madonna 
is  as  real  to  her  as  any  widowed  princess ;  they  address 
her  with  similar  respect,  and  weep  in  order  to  obtain  her 
sympathy. 

Santa  Maria  della  Pietra,  Santa  Chiara,  and  San 
Gennaro. — The  first  of  these  churches  is  a  brilliant 
bon-bon  box.  You  are  here  shown  a  veiled  statue  of 
Modesty  in  marble ;  but  the  veil  is  so  thin  and  adhesive, 
BO  well  disposed  about  the  neck  and  forms  of  the  body, 
that  she  appears  more  than  naked.  In  the  depths  of  a 
crypt  is  a  dead  Christ  wrapped  in  a  shroud.  The  cus- 
todian produces  a  candle,  and  by  its  dim  light  and  in  this 
cold  damp  atmosphere  your  eyes  and  senses,  the  whole 
nervous  system,  is  as  much  shocked  as  if  brought  in  con- 
tact with  a  corpse.  Such  are  the  sensational  achieve- 
ments of  superstition  and  sculpture ;  artistic  vanity  ia 
gratified,  they  amuse  the  epicurean,  and  make  the  devout 
shudder.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  richness  of  the  paint- 
ings, on  the  lavish  display  of  ornament,  on  the  pretentious 
decoration,  all  of  which  is  more  conspicuous  in  Santa 
Chiara,  in  the  enormous  silver  vines  that  encumber  the 
altar,  in  the  numberless  bronze  and  gilded  balustrades 
and  little  golden  balls  and  tufts  and  garlanded  tapers, 
and  overloaded  altars,  similar  to  those  that  little  girls 
arrange  and  deck  for  the  Fete-Dieu.  Numerous  churches 
whose  names  I  have  forgotten  are  all  bedizened  with  this 
finery.  This  pagan  Catholicism  is  offensive  ;  sensuality 
can  always  be  detected  under  the  mantle  of  asceticism. 
Skulls,  hour-glasses,  and  mystic  invocations  present  in- 
congruities alongside  of  gilding,  precious  marbles,  and 
Grecian  capitals.  There  is  no  Christianity  about  it, 

greater  number  being  taken  out  dead  or  dying.  Their  mothers  console 
themselves  by  saying  that  the  Virgin  has  taken  their  little  angel  into 
Paradise.'  ('  Mysteries  of  the  Convents  of  Naplea,'  p.  39,  by  Enrichetta 
Caracciolo,  ex- Benedictine.) 


S8  NAPLES. 

except  its  superstition  and  fear.  Here  particularly  is  an 
absence  of  grandeur  and  a  reign  of  affectation.  A  church 
is  simply  a  magazine  of  pretty  things.  In  striving  to 
ascertain  the  sentiment  of  the  people  for  whom  all  this 
was  built,  I  find  only  a  desire  to  enjoy  fresh  air  in  a 
jeweller's  shop,  or  at  best  a  notion  that  in  giving  large 
sums  of  money  to  a  saint  he  will  preserve  one  from  fever ; 
it  is  a  casino  for  the  use  of  fancy -fed  brains.  In  respect 
to  its  architects  and  painters  they  were  declaimers,  who, 
through  imitations  to  deceive  the  eye,  and  vast  arches 
with  curious  span,  aimed  to  reanimate  a  worn-out  atten- 
tion. All  this  indicates  a  degenerate  epoch,  the  ex- 
tinction of  genuine  feeling,  the  turgidity  of  a  toiling, 
exhausted  art,  the  pernicious  effects  of  a  perverted  civili- 
sation and  foreign  dominion.  Still,  amidst  this  decadence, 
there  are  occasional  portions  instinct  with  the  old  vigorous 
genius.  For  example,  at  San  Gennaro  some  powerful 
figures  painted  by  Vasari  over  the  entrances,  and  ceilings 
by  Santa-Fede  and  Forti,  containing  many  proud  and 
spirited  groups  and  figures,  along  with  some  tombs  and 
a  large  nave  with  rows  of  medallions  of  archbishops,  and 
the  lofty  spring  of  which  and  gilded  background  en 
coquille  display  the  majesty  and  importance  of  genuine 
decoration. 

The  Convent  of  San  Martino. — To  this  we  ascend  by 
narrow,  dirty,  and  densely-populated  streets.  I  cannot 
accustom  myself  to  these  tattered,  chattering,  gesticula- 
ting characters.  The  women  are  not  handsome ;  on  the 
contrary,  their  complexion  is  sallow,  even  among  the 
young.  Besides  this,  their  flat  noses  spoil  their  laces. 
Altogether  you  have  a  lively  and  occasionally  a  piquant 
countenance,  sufficiently  resembling  the  pleasing  but  ir- 
i  egular  features  of  the  women  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
but  very  far  removed  from  the  beauty  of  the  Greeks 
which  has  been  assigned  to  them. 


SAN   MARTINO.  29 

We  mount  up  higher  and  higher,  always  ascending; 
<me  set  of  steps  after  another,  and  no  end  to  them,  and 
always  the  same  rags  suspended  on  surrounding  cords ; 
then  narrow  streets  with  loaded  donkeys  feeling  their  way 
along  slippery  declivities,  muddy  streams  trickling  between 
the  stones,  ragged  little  scamps  of  beggars,  and  full  views 
into  interior  household  arrangements.  This  mountain  is 
a  sort  of  elephant  whereon  crawling,  fidgety  human 
insects  have  taken  up  their  abode.  You  pass  a  house 
deprived  of  its  lower  story,  to  which  the  inmates  ascend 
by  a  ladder ;  then  another  with  an  open  door,  through 
which  you  see  a  man  strumming  a  guitar,  surrounded  by 
a  lot  of  women  assorting  vegetables.  Suddenly  you 
emerge  from  this  rag-fair,  these  rat-holes,  this  gipsy  en- 
campment, and  reach  the  magnificent  convent,  with  all  the 
beauties  of  nature  before  you  and  all  its  treasures  of  art 

One  of  its  courts  especially,  an  ample  enclosure  sur- 
rounded by  four  white  marble  porticoes,  and  with  a  vast 
cistern  in  the  centre,  seemed  to  me  admirable.  Shrub- 
bery, high  and  thick,  the  blue  lavender,  overhangs  its 
pavement,  displaying  its  light  and  healthy  verdure; 
while  above  shines  glittering  white  marble,  and  over  this 
the  rich  blue  sky,  each  of  these  colours  framing  the  other 
and  enhancing  their  respective  value.  How  well  they 
comprehend  architecture  here,  and  especially  the  portico  ! 
In  the  north  this  feature  is  an  excrescence,  an  importa- 
tion of  pedantry  ;  nobody  knows  what  to  do  with  it,  unac- 
customed as  people  are  to  evening  promenades  in  the  open 
air,  and  requiring  no  protection  from  the  sun  nor  open- 
ings to  admit  the  cool  breeze  of  the  sea.  And  especially 
are  they  insensible  to  the  eifect  of  simple  lines  and  broad 
contrasts  of  few  and  simple  colours.  One  must  live 
beneath  an  intensely  blue  sky  in  order  to  enjoy  the  polish 
and  whiteness  of  marble.  Art  was  made  for  this  country. 
In  the  happy  frame  of  mind  produced  by  this  luminous 


SO  NAPLES. 

sky  and  pure  atnuvsphere,  one  loves  ornament,  and  is 
content  to  see  coloured  marbles  under  his  feet  forming 
designs,  and  at  the  end  of  a  gallery  some  large  sculptured 
medallion,  and  on  the  summit  of  a  portico  half-nude 
statues  of  beautiful  young  saints  or  some  female  form  of 
the  same  sentiment  in  fine  drapery.  Christianity  thua 
becomes  pleasing  and  picturesque;  the  eye  is  charmed 
and  the  soul  is  moved  with  a  spirit  of  joy  and  noble- 
ness. At  the  end  of  one  of  the  galleries  are  balconies 
facing  the  sea.  From  these  you  have  a  view  of  Naples 
immensely  extended,  and  stretching  as  far  as  Vesuvius  by 
a  line  of  white  houses ;  and  around  the  gulf  the  bend- 
ing coast  embracing  the  blue  sea,  and  beyond,  the  golden 
glimmering  surface  sparkling  and  flashing  in  sunlight,  the 
sun  itself  resembling  a  lamp  suspended  in  the  vast  con- 
cave firmament  above. 

Beneath  is  a  long  slope  covered  with  dull  green  olive 
trees,  forming  the  convent  gardens.  Avenues  of  shady 
trellises  run  wherever  the  soil  is  level  enough  to  sustain 
'them.  Platforms  with  grand  isolated  trees,  massive 
foundations  burying  themselves  in  the  rocks,  a  colonnade 
in  ruins,  the  broad  bay  beyond,  innumerable  little  sails, 
Monte  San  Angelo,  and  smoking  Vesuvius,  all  contribute 
to  make  of  this  convent  a  world  by  itself,  secluded  but 
complete,  and  so  full  of  beauty.  One  is  here  transported 
leagues  away  from  our  common-place  bourgeois  life.  Ita 
inmates  go  bareheaded  in  brown  and  black  garbs,  and  wear 
coarse  shoes ;  but  beauty  surrounds  them,  and  no  prince's 
palace  I  have  yet  seen  makes  such  a  noble  imp;  ession. 
Petty  comforts  are  wanting  here,  but  this  only  renders 
the  rest  more  exalted. 

I  visited  lately  one  of  the  costliest  and  most  elegant  of 
modern  mansions,  situated  like  this,  facing  the  sea.  Its 
proprietor  IB  a  man  of  taste,  has  accumulated  millions,  and 
ia  prodigal  of  his  wealth.  Everything  is  polished,  but 


A  MODERN  MANSION.  31 

nothing  grand ;  not  a  colonnade  is  to  be  seen,  nor  a  splen- 
did apartment.  Of  what  use  would  they  be  ?  It  is  an 
agreeable  residence,  but  not  a  corner,  outside  or  inside, 
would  a  painter  care  to  copy.  Every  object  by  itself  is  a 
model  of  finish  and  convenience ;  there  are  six  bell-knobs 
by  each  bedside,  the  curtains  are  exquisite,  and  the  easy- 
chairs  could  not  possibly  be  more  comfortable.  You  find, 
as  in  English  houses,  every  sort  of  utensil  for  petty  ne- 
cessities. The  architect  and  the  upholsterer  have  deliber- 
ated over  the  best  means  for  avoiding  heat,  cold,  and  too 
much  light,  and  how  to  wash  and  to  expectorate  with  the 
utmost  facility,  and  that  is  all.  The  sole  works  of  art 
visible  are  a  few  pictures  by  Watteau  and  Boucher.  And 
these  are  incongruous,  because  they  recall  another  epoch. 
la  there  anything  of  the  eighteenth  century  still  subsist- 
ing with  us  ?  Do  we  retain  the  antechamber  and  the 
splendid  parade  of  aristocratic  life  ?  A  crowd  of  lacqueys 
would  annoy  us ;  if  we  maintain  courtiers  it  is  in  our 
bureaus;  what  we  require  in  our  houses  is  easy-chairs, 
choice  segars,  a  good  dinner,  and  at  most,  on  ceremonial 
occasions,  a  little  extra  display  to  do  ourselves  credit. 
We  no  longer  know  how  to  live  on  a  grand  scale,  to  live 
out  of  ourselves ;  we  canton  ourselves  in  a  small  circle  of 
personal  comfort,  and  interest  ourselves  only  in  ephemeral 
works.  Living  at  that  time  was  reduced  to  simple  wants, 
and  thus  free,  the  mind  could  contemplate  distant  hori- 
zons and  embrace  all  that  expands  and  endures  beyond 
man's  existence. 

A  sallow-faced  monk  with  brilliant  eyes,  and  a  reserved 
concentrated  expression,  conducted  us  into  the  church, 
Theie  is  not  a  corridor  nor  a  vista  that  does  not  bear  an 
artistic  imprint.  At  the  entrance,  in  a  bare  court,  is  a 
Madonna  by  Bernini,  wriggling  in  her  mincing  drapery, 
and  contemplating  her  infant,  as  pretty  and  delicate  as  a 
boudoir  Cupid ;  but  she  is  a  superb  figure,  nevertheless, 


99  NAPL3S. 

and  testifies  to  her  race — the  race  of  noble  forms  created 
by  the  great  masters.  When  this  convent  was  decorated 
in  the  seventeenth  century,  pure  ideas  of  the  beautiful  no 
longer  prevailed,  but  the  beautiful  was  still  an  aspiration. 
The  contrast  is  apparent  on  resorting  to  the  interiors  of 
Windsor,  Buckingham  Palace,  or  the  Tuileries. 

This  church  is  of  extraordinary  richness.  Whal  is 
here  accumulated  of  precious  marble,  sculpture,  and 
paintings,  is  incredible.  The  balustrades  and  columns 
are  bijous.  A  legion  of  contemporary  sculptors  and 
painters,  Guido,  Lanfranco,  Caravaggio,  the  Chevalier 
d'Arpino,  Solimene,  Luca  Giordano,  have  all  expended 
upon  it  the  extravagances,  the  graces,  and  the  dainty 
conceptions  of  their  pencils.  The  chapels  alongside  the 
great  nave,  and  the  sacristy,  display  paintings  by  hun- 
dreds. There  is  not  a  corner  of  the  ceiling  that  is  not 
covered  with  fresco.  These  figures  all  rush  backwards 
and  forwards  as  if  they  were  in  the  open  air ;  draperies 
are  floating  and  commingling,  and  rosy  flesh  glows  under- 
neath silken  tunics,  their  fine  limbs  seeming  to  delight  in 
a  display  of  their  forms  and  movements.  Many  of  the 
half-naked  saints  are  charming  youths,  and  an  angel  by 
Luca  Giordano,  attired  in  blue,  with  naked  limbs  and 
shoulders,  resembles  an  amorous  young  girl.  The  atti- 
tudes are  all  exaggerated;  it  is  dire  confusion,  but  it 
harmonises  with  the  lustre  of  marble,  the  flutter  of 
drapery,  the  sparkle  of  golden  ornaments,  and  the  splen- 
dour of  columns  and  capitals.  This  decoration  cannot  be 
exclusively  attributed  to  the  cold  flat  taste  of  the  priests. 
The  breath  of  the  preceding  century  still  animates  it ;  we 
have  the  style  of  Euripides  if  we  no  longer  possess  that 
of  Sophocles.  Some  of  the  subjects  are  magnificent, 
and  among  them  a  *  Descent  from  the  Cross'  by  Ribera. 
The  sun's  rays  shone  through  the  half-drawn  red  silk 
curtains  upon  the  head  of  Christ;  the  darks  of  the  back- 


RIB  ERA.  33 

ground  seemed  still  more  lugubrious,  contrasted  suddenly 
with  this  bright  light  falling  on  the  luminous  flesh,  while 
the  mournful  Spanish  colouriug,  the  powerful,  mysterious 
tones  of  the  impassioned  countenances  in  shadow,  gave 
to  the  scene  the  aspect  of  a  vision,  such  as  once  filled 
the  monastic  chivalric  brain  of  a  Calderon  or  a  Lope  d* 
Vega. 


CHAPTER  11. 

POZZUOLI  AND  BAI^E-  CASTELLAMAHE— SOBRENTO—  HOMERIC  LIFK 

AT  the  end  of  the  grotto  of  Pausilippo  the  country 
begins,  a  kind  of  orchard  full  of  high  vines,  each  one 
wedded  to  a  tree.  Underneath  these  shine  the  elegant 
green  lupine  and  a  species  of  the  yellow  crocus.  All 
this  lies  before  you  sleeping  in  the  misty  atmosphere, 
like  jewels  embedded  in  gauze. 

The  road  turns,  and  the  sea  appears,  and  you  follow  it 
as  far  as  Pozzuoli.  The  morning  is  gray,  and  watery 
clouds  float  slowly  above  the  dull  horizon.  The  mist  has 
not  evaporated ;  now  and  then  it  diminishes  and  lets  a 
pale  ray  of  sunshine  glimmer  through,  like  an  impercepti- 
ble smile.  Meanwhile  the  sea  casts  its  long  white  swell 
on  a  strand  as  tranquil  as  itself,  and  then  recedes  with  a 
low  monotonous  murmur. 

A  uniform  tint  of  pale  blue,  as  if  effaced,  fills  the 
immense  expanse  of  the  sea  and  the  sky.  Both  sea  and 
sky  seem  to  be  merged  into  each  other;  often  do  the 
small  black  boats  appear  like  birds  poised  in  the  air.  All 
is  repose  ;  the  ear  scarcely  detects  the  gentle  murmur  of 
the  waves.  The  delicate  hues  of  dripping  slate  in  its 
dewy  crevices  alone  furnish  an  idea  of  their  faded  tint. 
You  repeat  to  yourself  Virgil's  lines ;  you  imagine  those 
silent  regions  into  which  the  Sibyl  descends,  the  realm  of 
floating  shades,  not  cold  and  lugubrious  like  the  Cimmereau 
laud  of  Homer,  but  where  existence,  vague  and  vapoury, 


POZZUOLI  AND   BALE.  84 

reposes  until  the  powerful  rays  of  the  sun  concentrate  it, 
and  send  it  forth  to  flow  radiant  in  life's  torrent ;  or 
again  on  those  slumbering  strands  where  future  souls>  a 
humming  vapoury  throng,  fly  indistinctly  like  bees 
around  the  calyx  of  a  flower.  Nisida,  Ischia  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  Cape  Mysena,  bear  no  resemblance  to  visible 
objects,  but  to  noble  phantoms  on  the  point  of  emerging 
into  life.  Farther  on,  the  whole  country,  the  white 
trunks  of  the  sycamores,  the  verdure  softened  by  mist 
and  winter,  the  slender  reeds,  the  passive  surface  of  Lake 
Avernus,  the  faint  mountain  forms — all  this  mute  languid 
landscape  seems  to  be  at  rest,  asleep,  not  subdued 
and  stiffened  by  death,  but  softly  enveloped  in  genial 
monotonous  tranquillity.  Such  is  the  ancient  conception 
of  the  extinction  of  life,  of  the  beyond.  Their  tombs  are 
not  mournful ;  the  dead  repose ;  they  do  not  suffer,  and  are 
not  annihilated ;  they  bring  them  meat,  wine,  and  milk  ; 
they  still  exist,  only  they  are  transferred  from  the  light 
of  day  to  the  gloom  of  twilight.  Christian  and  Germanic 
ideas,  the  spiritual  voices  of  Pascal  and  Shakspeare,  do 
not  address  us  here. 

I  have  not  much  to  say  of  Baias.  It  is  a  miserable 
village  with  a  few  boats  moored  around  an  old  fortress. 
The  rains  have  made  a  cesspool  of  it.  Pozzuoli  is  still  worse. 
Here  hogs  covered  with  mire  roam  about  the  streets ; 
some  with  a  curb  encompassing  the  belly,  grunt  and  are 
struggling  for  freedom.  Ragged  little  urchins  around  them 
seem  to  be  their  brothers.  A  dozen  or  more  of  semi-beg- 
gais,  a  filthy  parasite  canaille,  huddle  around  the  carriage ; 
youjdrive  them  off  again  and  again,  but  to  no  purpose; 
they  insist  on  serving  as  your  guides.  Three  years  ago, 
it  seems,  they  were  much  worse  ;  instead  of  twelve  on  our 
track,  we  would  have  had  fifty.  At  Naples  the  boya 
wandered  through  the  streets  as  they  now  do  here.  The 
people  are  still  quite  savage ;  when  they  heard  of  tho 

l>  2 


30  NAPLES. 

arrival  of  Victor  Emmanuel  they  were  much  astonished, 
and  supposed  that  Victor  Emmanuel  had  dethroned  Gari- 
baldi. Many  of  them  have  but  one  shoe,  others  trot 
about  in  the  mud  barefooted  and  barelegged.  Their  rags 
cannot  be  described — similar  ones  can  only  be  found  in 
London.  Through  the  open  doors  you  observe  women 
freeing  their  children  of  vermin,  and  miserable  straw-pal- 
lets with  lolling  £>rms  on  them.  On  the  public  thorough- 
fares at  the  entrance  of  the  town  you  find  clusters  of 
vagabonds,  little  and  big,  awaiting  their  prey,  perchance 
some  foreigner,  on  whom  they  immediately  pounce. 
Three  among  them  showing  themselves  more  eager  than 
the  others,  my  companion  began  to  banter  them.  They 
are  fond  of  humour,  and  reply  to  it  with  a  mixture  of  im- 
pudence and  humility.  They  even  retort  upon  each 
other.  One  especially,  pointing  to  his  comrade,  charged 
him  with  having  a  deformed  mistress,  and  described  the 
deformity  with  some  detail.  What  woman  is  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  possess  such  a  lover !  I  suppose  her  olfactory 
nerves  are  no  longer  sensitive.  In  the  grotto  of  Pausilippo, 
and  throughout  Naples  in  general,  one  is  always  inclined 
to  stop  his  nose ;  in  summer,  they  say,  it  is  much  worse. 
And  this  is  universal  in  the  south,  at  Avignon,  at  Toulon, 
as  well  as  in  Italy.  It  is  asserted  that  southerly  senses 
are  more  delicate  than  northern ; — but  this  is  true  only 
for  the  eye  and  the  ear. 

We  visit  a  temple  of  Serapis.  where  three  fine  columns 
remain  standing ;  in  the  vicinity  are  antique  baths  and 
sulphurous  springs,  the  entire  coast  being  strewed  with 
Roman  remains.  Arcades  of  villas,  underground  ruins, 
and  maritime  substructures,  form  an  almost  continuous 
chain.  Most  of  the  wealthy  citizens  of  Rome  possessed 
country  houses  here  ;  but  to-day  I  am  not  in  an  archaeo- 
logical humour. 
I  am  wrong — the  amphitheatre  is  well  worth  the  trouble. 


CASTELLAMARE   AND   SORRENTO.  «T 

The  arches  beneath  it  recently  exhumed  are  as  fresh  as  if 
constructed  yesterday.  An  enormous  subterranean  story 
served  as  a  lodging-place  for  gladiators  and  animals.  This 
amphitheatre  would  seat  30,000  spectators.  There  was 
not  an  ancient  Roman  town  from  Antioch  to  Cadiz,  and 
from  Metz  to  Carthage,  that  did  not  possess  one  of  these 
structures.  For  four  hundred  years  what  a  consumption  of 
living  flesh!  The  more  you  contemplate  the  circus,  the 
more  evident  is  it  that  antique  life  culminated  there.  The 
city  formed  an  association  for  the  hunting  of  man,  and  to 
make  the  most  of  him  ;  it  used  and  then  abused  its  cap- 
tives and  slaves,  in  times  of  moderation  subsisting  on 
their  labour,  and  in  ages  of  debauchery  obtaining  enter- 
tainment from  their  death  throes. 

In  these  vast  cellars,  in  this  subterranean  city,  columns 
lie  on  the  ground,  prostrated  by  earthquakes,  similar  to 
huge  trunks  of  trees.  Green  foliage  hangs  pendent  along 
the  walls,  the  water  percolating  through  these  like  a 
fountain  which,  drop  by  drop,  falls  from  the  locks  of  a 
naiad. 

A  Promenade  to  Castellamare  and  Sorrento. — The  sky 
is  almost  clear.  Only  above  Naples  hangs  a  bank  of 
clouds,  and  around  Vesuvius  huge  white  masses  of  smoke, 
moving  and  stationary. 

I  never  yet  saw,  even  in  summer  at  Marseilles,  the 
blue  of  the  sea  so  deep,  bordering  even  on  hardness. 
Above  this  powerful  lustrous  azure,  absorbing  three- 
quarters  of  the  visible  space,  the  white  sky  seems  to  be  a 
firmament  of  crystal.  As  we  recede  we  obtain  a  better 
view  of  the  undulating  coast,  embraced  in  one  grand 
mountain  form,  all  its  parts  uniting  like  the  members  of 
one  body.  Ischia  and  the  naked  promontories  on  the  ex- 
treme end  repose  in  their  lilac  envelope,  like  a  slumbering 
Pompeian  nymph  under  her  veil.  Veritably,  to  paint 
mch  nature  as  this,  this  violet  continent  extending  around 


3*  NAPLES. 

this  broad  luminous  water,  one  must  employ  the  terms  of 
the  ancient  poets,  and  represent  the  great  fertile  goddess 
embraced  and  beset  by  the  eternal  ocean,  and  above  them 
the  serene  effulgence  of  the  dazzling  Jupiter.  Hot 
sublime  candens  quern  omnes  iiivocant  Jovem. 

We  encounter  on  the  road  some  fine  faces  Kith  long 
elegant  features,  quite  Grecian;  some  intelligent  noble 
looking  girls,  and  here  and  there  hideous  mendicants 
cleaning  their  hairy  breasts.  But  the  race  is  much 
superior  to  that  of  Naples,  where  it  is  deformed  and  dimi- 
nutive, the  young  girls  there  appearing  like  stunted 
pallid  grisettes.  Labourers  are  busy  in  the  field.  By  fre- 
quently seeing  naked  legs  and  feet,  you  get  to  be  interested 
in  forms ;  you  are  pleased  to  see  a  muscle  of  the  calf 
strain  in  pushing  a  cart,  and  swell  and  compass  the  entire 
limb  ;  the  eye  follows  its  curve  up  and  down,  and  you 
admire  the  firm  grasp  of  the  toes  on  the  ground,  the  fit- 
ness and  insertion  of  each  bone,  the  roundness  of  the  large 
toe,  the  aptitude  and  force  and  activity  of  the  limb.  To 
daily  spectacles  of  this  kind  in  former  times  we  are  in- 
debted for  sculpture.  As  soon  as  the  shoe  appeared  it 
could  no  longer  be  said,  as  in  the  time  of  Homer,  *  the 
fine-heeled  women ;'  nowadays  the  foot  has  no  form ; 
it  interests  nobody  but  a  shoemaker,  and  no  longer  pro- 
vides models  which,  gradually  correcting  each  other, 
allow  the  development  of  its  ideal  type.  In  former  times 
the  Roman,  rich  or  poor,  also  the  Greek,  always  exposed 
his  leg,  and  in  the  baths  and  in  the  gymnasia,  his  entire 
body.  The  custom  of  exercising  naked  was  distinctly  a 
Greek  trait ;  in  Herodotus  we  see  how  offensive  it  was  to 
the  Asiatics  and  other  barbarians. 

The  railroad  skirts  the  sea  a  few  paces  off  and  almost 
on  a  level  with  it.  A  harbour  appears  blackened  with 
lines  of  rigging,  and  then  a  mole,  consisting  of  a  small  half- 
ruined  fort,  reflecting  a  clear  sharp  shadow  in  the  lumin- 


CASTELLAMARE   AND   SORRENTO.  99 

OTIS  expanse.  Surrounding  this  rise  square  houses,  grey 
as  if  charred,  and  heaped  together  like  tortoises  tinder 
round  roofs,  serving  them  as  a  sort  of  thick  shell.  This 
is  Torre  del  Greco,  protecting  itself  against  earthquakes 
and  the  showers  of  ashes  launched  forth  by  Vesuvius. 
Beyond  breaks  the  sea,  heaving  and  tossing  like  a  tide- 
way. All  this  is  peculiar  and  charming.  On  this  fertile 
soil,  full  of  cinders,  cultivation  extends  to  the  shore  and 
forms  gardens ;  a  simple  reed  hedge  protects  them  from 
the  sea  and  the  wind ;  the  Indian  fig  with  its  clumsy 
thorny  leaves  clings  to  the  slopes ;  verdure  begins  to 
appear  on  the  branches  of  the  trees,  the  apricots  showing 
their  smiling  pink  blossoms  ;  half-naked  men  work  the 
friable  soil  without  apparent  effort ;  a  few  square  gardens 
contain  columns  and  small  statues  of  white  marble. 
Everywhere  you  behold  traces  of  antique  beauty  and 
joyousness.  And  why  wonder  at  this  when  you  feel  that 
you  have  the  divine  vernal  sun  for  a  companion,  and  on 
the  right,  whenever  you  turn  to  the  sea,  its  flaming 
golden  waves. 

With  what  facility  you  here  forget  all  ugly  objects  I 
I  believe  I  passed  at  Castellamare  some  unsightly  modern 
structures,  a  railroad  station,  hotels,  a  guard-house,  and 
a  number  of  rickety  vehicles  hurrying  along  in  quest  of 
fares.  This  is  all  effaced  from  my  mind ;  nothing  re- 
mains but  impressions  of  obscure  porches  with  glimpses 
of  bright  courts  filled  with  glossy  oranges  and  spring 
verdure,  of  esplanades  with  children  playing  on  them 
and  nets  drying,  and  happy  idlers  snuffing  the  breeze  and 
contemplating  the  capricious  heaving  of  the  tossing  sea. 

On  leaving  Castellamare  the  road  forms  a  corniche* 
winding  along  the  bank.  Huge  white  rocks,  split  off  from 


•  This  term  designates  a  road  built  along  the  rocky  shore  of  a  seaside 
being  a  figuratiTe  appliration  of  the  architectural  term  cornice.— T*. 


44  NAPLES. 

the  cliffs  above,  lie  below  in  the  midst  of  the  eternally 
besieging  waves.  On  the  left  the  mountains  lift  their 
shattered  pinnacles,  fretted  walls,  and  projecting  crags,  all 
that  scaffolding  of  indentations  which  strike  you  as  the 
ruins  of  a  line  of  rocked  and  tottering  fortresses.  Each 
projection,  each  mass  throws  its  shadow  on  the  surround- 
ing white  surfaces,  the  entire  range  being  peopled  with 
tints  and  forms. 

Sometimes  the  mountain  is  rent  in  twain,  and  the  sides 
of  the  chasm  are  lined  with  cultivation,  descending  in  suc- 
cessive stages.  Sorrento  is  thus  built  on  three  deep 
ravines.  All  these  hollows  contain  gardens,  crowded  with 
masses  of  trees  overhanging  each  other.  Nut-trees,  already 
lively  with  sap,  project  their  white  branches  like  gnarled 
fingers  ;  everything  else  is  green ;  winter  lays  no  hand  on 
this  eternal  spring.  The  thick  lustrous  leaf  of  the  orange- 
tree  rises  from  amidst  the  foliage  of  the  olive,  and  its 
golden  apples  glisten  hi  the  sun  by  thousands,  interspersed 
with  gleams  of  the  pale  lemon  ;  often  in  these  shady  lanes 
do  its  glittering  leaves  flash  out  above  the  crest  of  the 
walls.  This  is  the  land  of  the  orange.  It  grows  even  in 
miserable  court-yards,  alongside  of  dilapidated  steps, 
spreading  its  luxuriant  tops  everywhere  in  the  bright 
sunlight.  The  delicate  aromatic  odour  of  all  these  open- 
ing buds  and  blossoms  is  a  luxury  of  kings,  which  here 
a  beggar  enjoys  for  nothing. 

I  passed  an  hour  in  the  garden  of  the  hotel,  a  terrace 
overlooking  the  sea  about  half-way  up  the  bank.  A 
scene  like  this  fills  the  imagination  with  a  dream  of  per- 
fect bliss.  The  house  stands  in  a  luxurious  garden,  filled 
wilh  orange  and  lemon-trees,  as  heavily  laden  with  fruit 
as  those  of  a  Normandy  orchard ;  the  ground  at  the  foot 
of  the  trees  is  covered  with  it  Clusters  of  foliage  and 
shrubbery  of  a  pale  green,  bordering  on  blue,  occupy 
intermediate  spaces.  The  rosy  blossoms  of  the  peach, 


CASTELLAMARB  AND  SOEEENTO.  41 

§0  tender  and  delicate,  bloom  on  its  naked  branches.  The 
walks  are  of  bright  blue  porcelain,  and  the  terrace  dis- 
plays its  round  verdant  masses  overhanging  the  sea,  of 
which  the  lovely  azure  fills  all  space. 

I  have  not  yet  spoken  of  my  impressions  after  leaving 
Castellainare.  The  charm  was  only  too  great.  The  pure 
&ky,  the  pale  azure  almost  transparent,  the  radiant  blue  sea 
as  chaste  and  tender  as  a  virgin  bride,  this  infinite  expanse 
BO  exquisitely  adorned  as  if  for  a  festival  of  rare  delight, 
is  a  sensation  that  has  no  equal.  Capri  and  Ischia  on  the 
line  of  the  sky  lie  white  in  their  soft  vapoury  tissue,  and 
the  divine  azure  gently  fades  away  surrounded  by  this 
border  of  brightness. 

Where  find  words  to  express  all  this?  The  gulf 
seemed  like  a  marble  vase  purposely  rounded  to  receive 
the  sea.  The  satin  sheen  of  a  flower,  the  soft  luminous 
petals  of  the  velvet  orris  with  shimmering  sunshine  on 
their  pearly  borders,  such  are  the  images  that  fill  the  mind, 
and  which  accumulate  in  vain  and  are  ever  inadequate. 

The  water  at  the  base  of  these  rocks  is  now  a  trans- 
parent emerald,  reflecting  the  tints  of  topaz  and  amethyst ; 
again  a  liquid  diamond,  changing  its  hue  according  to  the 
shifting  influences  of  rock  and  depth  ;  or  again  a  flashing 
diadem,  glittering  with  the  splendour  of  this  divine  efful- 
gence. 

As  the  sun  declines,  the  blue  towards  the  north  deepeni 
in  tone,  and  resembles  the  colour  of  dark  wine.  The 
CQi&t  becomes  black,  rising  in  relief  like  a  barrier  of  jet, 
whilst  the  evening  glow  spreads  and  diffuses  itself  over 
the  ffea.  As  I  passed  along  the  road  I  thought  of  Ulysses 
and  liis  companions  ;  of  their  two-sailed  barks,  similar  to 
those  here  dancing  on  the  waves  like  sea-gulls;  on  the 
indented  shores  by  which  they  coasted  ;  on  the  unknown 
creeks  in  which  they  anchored  at  night;  on  the  vague 
astonishment  excited  by  new  forests ;  on  the  repose  of 


«S  NAPLES. 

their  wearied  limbs  on  these  dry  sandy  promontories ;  on 
thjse  fine  heroic  forms  whose  nudity  graced  these  desert 
capes.  Syrens  with  dishevelled  locks  and  marble  torsoa 
might  well  arise  in  these  azure  depths  before  those  polished 
rocks,  and  but  little  effort  of  the  imagination  is  neces- 
sary to  catch  the  song  of  the  enchantress  Circe.  In  this 
climate  she  might  address  Ulysses,  *  Come,  place  thy  swonl 
in  its  sheath,  and  we  two  will  then  betake  ourselves  to  my 
couch,  that  there  united  by  love  we  may  trust  in  one 
another.'  The  words  of  the  old  poet  on  the  purple  sea, 
on  the  ocean  embracing  the  earth,  on  the  white-armed 
women,  come  into  the  mind  naturally  as  on  their  native 
soil. 

Indeed,  all  is  beauty,  and  in  this  clement  atmosphere 
a  simple  life  may  revive  as  in  the  time  of  Homer.  All 
that  three  thousand  years  of  civilisation  have  added  to 
our  well-being  seems  useless.  What  does  man  need 
here  ?  A  strip  of  linen  and  a  piece  of  cloth  if,  like  Ulysses' 
companions,  his  body  is  healthy  and  he  comes  of  good 
stock ;  once  clothed,  the  rest  is  superfluous,  or  comes  of 
itself.  They  slaughter  a  stag,  roast  his  flesh  on  coals, 
drink  wine  from  skins,  light  fires,  and  repose  at  evening  on 
the  sand.  How  complicated  and  perverted  man  has  become  ! 
How  gladly  one  dwells  on  the  luxurious  life  of  a  goddess  as 
Homer  imagines  it  I  '  There  was  a  great  cave  in  which 
the  fair-haired  nymph  dwelt.  A  large  fire  was  burning 
on  the  hearth,  and  at  a  distance  the  smell  of  well-cleft 
ccdir  and  of  frankincense  that  was  burning  shed  odoiur 
through  the  island ;  but  she  within  was  singing  with  a 
beautiful  voice,  and  going  over  the  web,  wove  with  a 
golden  shuttle.  But  a  flourishing  wood  sprung  up  around 
her  grot,  alder  and  poplar  and  sweet-smelling  cypress, 
There  also  birds  with  spreading  wings  slept,  owls  and 
hawks,  and  wide-tongued  crows  of  the  ocean,  to  which 
maritime  employment  is  a  care.  Then  a  vine  in  ita 


HOMERIC   LIFE.  43 

prime  was  spread  about  the  hollow  grot,  and  it  flourished 
with  clusters.  But  four  fountains  flowed  in  succession 
with  white  water,  turned  near  one  another,  each  in  diffe- 
rent ways ;  but  around  them  flourished  soft  meadows  of 
violet,  and  of  parsley.  There  indeed  even  an  immortal 
coming  would  admire  it,  when  he  beheld,  and  would  be 
delighted  in  his  mind.'  * 

She  herself  spreads  the  table,  and  serves  her  guest  like 
Nausicaa ;  if  necessary  she  accompanies  the  servants  to 
wash  his  vestments  in  the  neighbouring  torrent.  Acti 
of  this  kind  were  performed  naturally  like  walking ;  they 
no  more  thought  of  avoiding  one  than  of  avoiding  the 
other.  Thus  was  the  force  and  agility  of  the  limbs 
maintained ;  it  was  an  instinct  and  a  pleasure  to  exercise 
and  employ  them.  Man  is  still  a  noble  animal,  almost 
related  to  the  fine-blooded  horses  that  he  feeds  on  his 
pastures ;  thus  the  use  of  his  arms  and  his  body  is  not 
to  him  servile.  Ulysses,  with  axe  and  auger,  cuts  and 
fashions  the  olive  trunk  that  serves  as  the  framework  of 
his  nuptial  couch ;  the  young  chiefs  that  strive  to  espouse 
his  wife  slaughter  and  dress  the  sheep  and  hogs  they 
consume.  And  sentiments  are  as  natural  as  habits.  Man 
does  not  constrain  himself ;  he  is  not  partially  developed 
on  the  side  of  savage  heroism  as  in  Germany,  or  that  of 
morbid  superstition  as  in  India  ;  he  is  not  ashamed  of  fear 
sometimes,  of  confessing  it,  and  of  even  being  moved  to 
tears. 

Goddesses  love  heroes,  and  offer  themselves  without 
blushing,  as  a  flower  inclines  to  the  neighbouring  flower 
that  renders  it  fertile.  Desire  seems  as  beautiful  as 
modesty,  vengeance  as  forgiveness.  Man  blooms  out 
fully,  harmoniously,  easily,  like  platanes  and  the  orange 
nourished  by  fresh  sea  breezes  and  the  balmy  atmosphere 

»  The  Odyssey,  translated  by  Buckley. 


44  NAPLES. 

of  ravines,  and  which  spread  their  round  tops  without 
hand  to  prune  them  or  rigour  of  climate  to  repel  the  sap 
from  their  buds  and  blossoms.  Out  of  all  these  narratives, 
out  of  the  forests  and  waters  just  traversed,  vaguely 
emerges  the  figures  of  antique  heroes;  that  of  Ulysses 
rising  out  of  the  flood,  '  grander  in  form  arid  more  broad- 
shouldered  '  than  other  men,  f  his  locks  falling  upon  Ida 
neck  similar  to  the  flowers  of  the  hyacinth,'  or  alongside 
of  him  the  young  maidens  who  lay  aside  their  garments 
and  play  on  the  river  bank,  and  among  them  Nausicaa, 
'  the  anconquered  maiden,  taller  than  her  companions  by 
more  than  a  head.' 

Even  this  does  not  suffice.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to 
describe  this  sky.  this  .intensely  bright  luminous  at- 
mosphere enveloping  and  animating  all  tilings,  the  smiling 
radiant  sea  its  spouse,  this  earth  which  advances  to  meet 
them,  it  would  be  necessary  to  revert  to  the  Yedic 
hymns,  and  there,  like  our  first  parents,  find  true  exist- 
ences, simple  loving  universal  beings,  shadowy,  eternal 
dviuities,  now  no  longer  recognised  by  us,  occupied  as 
we  are  with  the  details  of  our  little  life,  but  who,  in  sum, 
subsist  alone,  bearing  us,  protecting  us,  and  living 
together  as  formerly,  unconscious  of  the  imperceptible 
movements  and  ephemeral  toiling  and  scratching  of  our 
civilisation  on  theii  bosom. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

HMCtXANEUM  AND  POMPEII— THE  CITY  OF  ANTIQUIFT,   AHD 
ITS  LIFE. 

Several  days  at  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii. — Thousands 
and  thousands  of  objects  pass  before  one's  eyes,  all  of 
which,  on  returning  home,  whirl  through  the  brain. 
How  abstract  from  this  chaos  any  dominant  impression 
any  connected  view  of  the  whole  ? 

The  first  and  most  enduring  is  the  image  of  the  reddish- 
grey  city,  half  ruined  and  deserted,  a  pile  of  stones  on  a 
hill  of  rocks,  with  rows  of  thick  wall,  and  bluish  flagging 
glittering  in  the  dazzling  white  atmosphere ;  and  sur- 
rounding this  the  sea,  the  mountains,  and  an  infinite 
perspective. 

On  the  summit  stand  the  temples,  that  of  Justice,  of 
Venus,  of  Augustus,  of  Mercury,  the  house  of  Eumachia, 
and  other  temples,  still  incomplete,  and,  farther  on,  also  on 
an  elevation,  the  temple  of  Neptune.  They  also  raised  their 
gods  on  high  in  the  pure  atmosphere,  of  itself  a  divinity. 
The  forum  and  the  curia  alongside  afford  a  noble  spot  for 
councils,  and  to  offer  sacrifices.  In  the  distance  you 
discern  the  grand  lines  of  the  vapoury  mountains,  the 
tranquil  tops  of  the  Italian  pine ;  then  to  the  east,  withio 
the  blonde  sunlit  haze,  fine  tree-forms  and  diversities  of 
rulture.  You  turn,  and  but  little  effort  of  the  imagina- 
tion enables  you  to  reconstruct  these  temples.  These 


40  NAPLES. 

columns,  these  Corinthian  capitals,  this  simple  arrange- 
ment, those  openings  of  blue  between  those  marble  shafts, 
what  an  impression  such  a  spectacle  contemplated  from 
infancy  left  on  the  mind  !  The  city  in  those  days  was  a 
veritable  patrimony,  and  not,  as  now,  a  government  col- 
lection of  lodging-houses.  Of  what  significance  to  me  are 
the  Rouen  or  Limoges  of  to-day  ?  I  can  lodge  there 
amidst  piles  of  other  lodgings :  life  comes  from  Paris. 
Paris  itself,  what  is  it  but  another  heap  of  lodgings, 
the  life  of  which  issues  from  a  bureau  filled  with  clerks 
and  red  tape?  Here,  on  the  contrary,  men  regarded 
their  city  as  jewel  and  casket ;  they  bore  with  them 
everywhere  the  image  of  their  acropolis  and  its  bright 
illuminated  temples  ;  the  villages  of  Gaul  and  Germany, 
the  whole  barbaric  north,  seemed  to  them  simply  mire 
and  wilderness.  In  their  eyes,  a  man  who  belonged  to 
no  city  was  not  a  man,  but  a  kind  of  brute,  almost  a 
beast — a  beast  of  prey,  out  of  which  nothing  could  be 
made  but  a  beast  of  burden.  The  city  is  an  unique 
institution,  the  fruit  of  a  sovereign  idea  that  for  twelve 
centuries  controlled  all  man's  actions;  it  is  the  great 
invention  by  which  man  first  emerged  from  a  primi- 
tive state  of  savagery.  It  was  both  feudal  castle  and 
chu  *ch  :  how  man  loved  it,  how  devoted  he  was  to  it,  and 
h»/vi  absorbed  by  it  no  tongue  can  tell.  To  the  universe 
at  large  he  was  either  a  stranger  or  an  enemy :  he  had  n>> 
lights  in  it;  neither  his  body  nor  his  property  were  safe 
in  it ;  if  he  found  protection  there  it  was  a  matter  o/ 
gracs ;  he  never  thought  of  it  but  as  a  place  of  danger  or 
of  plunder  :  the  enclosure  of  his  city  was  his  sole  refuge 
and  fortress.  Moreover,  here  dwelt  his  divinities,  his 
Jupiter  and  Juno,  gods  inhabiting  the  city,  attached  to 
the  soil,  and  who,  in  primitive  conceptions,  constituted 
the  soil  itself,  with  all  its  streams,  its  fruits  and  the 
firmament  above.  Here  was  his  hearthstone,  his  penates, 


HERCULANEUM  AND   POMPEII.  47 

his  ancestors,  reposing  in  their  tombs,  incorporated  with 
the  soil  and  gathered  to  it  by  the  earth,  the  great  nurse, 
and  whose  subterranean  manes  in  their  silent  bed  watched 
over  him  unceasingly ;  it  was  a  combination  of  all  salutary, 
pacred,  and  beautiful  things,  and  for  him  to  defend,  to 
love,  arid  to  venerate.  (  Country  is  more  than  father  or 
mother,'  said  Socrates  to  Crito;  'and  whatever  violence 
or  whatever  injustice  she  inflicts  upon  us  we  must  sub- 
mit without  striving  to  escape  from  it.'  So  did  Greece 
and  Rome  comprehend  life.  When  their  philosophers, 
Aristotle  or  Plato,  treat  of  the  State,  it  is  as  a  city,  a 
compact  exclusive  city  of  from  five  to  ten  thousand  fami- 
lies, in  which  marriage,  occupations,  and  the  like,  are  sub- 
ordinated to  the  interests  of  the  public.  If  to  all  these 
peculiarities  we  add  the  accurate  and  picturesque  imagi- 
nation of  southern  races,  their  aptitude  at  representing 
corporeal  forms  and  local  objects,  the  glowing  exterior  and 
bold  relief  of  their  city,  we  comprehend  that  such  a  con- 
ception of  it  produced  in  antique  breasts  a  unique  sensa- 
tion, and  furnished  sources  of  emotion  and  devotion  to 
which  we  are  strangers. 

All  these  streets  are  narrow ;  the  greater  portion  are 
mere  lanes,  over  which  one  strides  with  ease.  Generally 
there  is  room  only  for  a  cart,  and  ruts  are  still  visible : 
from  time  to  time  wide  stones  afford  a  crossing  like  a 
bridge.  These  details  indicate  other  customs  than  our 
own  there  was  evidently  no  great  traffic  as  in  our 
Htit-»,  nothing  like  our  heavily-loaded  vehicles,  and 
fast -trotting  fanciful  carnages.  Their  carts  transported 
grain,  oil,  and  provisions:  much  of  the  transportation  was 
done  on  the  arm  and  by  slaves :  the  rich  travelled  about 
in  litters.  They  possessed  fewer  and  different  con- 
veniences One  prominent  trait  of  antique  civilisation  is 
the  absence  of  industrial  pursuits.  All  supplies,  utensils, 
and  tissues,  everything  that  machines  and  free  labour  now 


48  NAPLES. 

produce  in  such  enormous  quantities  for  everybody  and  at 
every  price,  were  wanting  to  them.  It  was  the  slave  who 
turned  the  mill-wheel :  man  devoted  himself  to  the  beauti- 
ful, and  not  to  the  useful ;  producing  but  little,  he  could 
consume  but  little.  Life  was  necessarily  simple,  and 
philosophers  and  legislators  were  well  aware  of  this;  if 
they  enjoined  temperance  it  was  not  through  pedantic 
motives,  but  because  luxury  was  visibly  incompatible  with 
the  social  state  of  things.  A  few  thousands  of  proud, 
brave,  temperate  men,  with  only  half  a  shirt  and  a  mantle 
apiece,  who  delighted  in  the  view  of  a  hill  with  a  group  of 
beautiful  temples  and  statues,.  *ho  entertained  themselves 
with  public  business,  and  passed  their  days  in  the  gymna- 
sium, at  the  forum,  in  the  baths  and  the  theatre,  who 
washed  and  anointed  themselves  with  oil,  and  were  con- 
tent with  things  as  they  stood; — such  was  the  city  of 
antiquity.  When  their  necessities  and  refinements  get  to 
be  immoderate,  the  slave  who  only  has  his  arms  no  longer 
suffices.  For  the  establishment  of  vast  complicated 
organisations  like  our  modern  communities,  for  example, 
the  equality  and  security  of  a  limited  monarchy,  in  which 
order  and  the  acquisition  of  wealth  is  the  common  end  of 
all,  there  was  no  basis ;  when  Rome  desired  to  create  it 
the  cities  were  crushed  out,  the  exhausted  slaves  had  dis- 
appeared, the  spring  to  set  it  in  motion  was  broken,  and 
all  perished. 

This  becomes  clearer  on  entering  the  houses — those  o< 
Cornelius  Eufus,  Marcus  Lucretius,  the  Casa  Nuovz  and 
the  house  of  Sullust.  They  are  small,  and  the  apart- 
ments are  yet  smaller.  They  are  designed  expressly  for 
enjoying  cool  air  and  to  sleep  in ;  man  passed  his  days 
elsewhere — in  the  forum,  in  the  baths,  and  at  the  theatre. 
Private  life,  so  important  to  us,  was  then  much  curtailed ; 
the  essential  thing  was  public  life.  There  is  no  trace  of 
chimney*,  and  certainly  there  were  but  few  articles  of 


THE   CITY  OP  ANTIQUITY,  AND   ITS   LIFE.  49 

furniture.     The  walls  are    painted  in  red  and  black,  a 

contrast  which  produces  a  pleasing  effect  in  a  semi- 
ob.icurity;  arabesques  of  a  charming  airiness  abound  every- 
where— Neptune  and  /  polio  building  the  walls  of  Troy, 
a  Triumph  of  Herculr  -  exquisite  little  cupids,  dancing 
females  apparently  fly  through  the  air,  young  girls 
inclining  against  colu  *ns,  and  Ariadne  discovered  by 
Bacchus.  What  vigour,  what  ingenuousness  in  all  these 
youthful  forms!  Sometimes  the  panel  contains  only  a 
graceful  sinuous  border,  and  in  its  centre  a  griffin.  The 
subjects  are  merely  indicated,  corresponding  to  our 
painted  wall-papers  ;  but  what  a  difference  !  Pompeii  is 
an  antique  St.  Germain  or  Fontainebleau,  by  which  one 
easily  sees  the  gulf  separating  the  old  and  the  ne^c 
worlds. 

Almost  everywhere  in  the  centre  of  the  house  is  a 
garden  like  a  large  saloon,  and  in  the  middle  of  this  a 
marble  basin,  a  fountain  flowing  into  it,  and  the  whole  en- 
closed within  a  portico  of  columns.  What  could  be  more 
charming,  and  simple,  and  better  disposed  for  the  warm 
hours  of  the  day  ?  With  green  leaves  visible  between  two 
white  columns,  red  tiles  against  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the 
murmuring  water  sparkling  among  flowers  like  a  jet  of 
liquid  pearls,  and  those  shadows  of  porticoes  intersected  by 
the  powerful  light ;  is  there  a  more  congenial  place  for  the 
body  to  grow  freely,  for  healthy  meditation,  and  to  enjoy, 
without  ostentation  or  affectation,  all  that  is  most  beau- 
tiful in  nature  and  in  life  ?  Some  of  these  fountains  bear 
lions'  heads,  and  sprightly  statuettes  of  children,  with 
lizards,  dogs,  and  fauns  grouped  around  their  margins 
In  the  most  capacious  of  all  these  houses,  that  of  Diomed: 
orange  and  lemon  trees,  similar,  probably,  to  those  of 
ancient  days,  are  putting  forth  their  fresh  green  buds ;  a 
fishpool  gleams  brightly,  and  a  small  colonnade  enclosei 
a  summer  dining-room,  the  whole  embraced  within  the 


50  NAPLES. 

square  of  a  grand  portico.  The  more  the  imaginKtum 
dwells  on  the  social  economy  of  antiquity,  the  more  beau- 
tiful it  seems,  and  the  more  conformable  to  the  climate 
and  the  nature  of  man.  The  women  had  their  gynaceum 
in  the  rear  behind  the  court  and  portico,  a  secluded 
retreat  with  no  external  communication,  and  entirely 
separated  from  public  life.  They  were  not  very  active  in 
their  small  apartments  ;  they  indulged  in  indolent  repose, 
like  Italian  ladies  of  the  present  day,  or  employed  them- 
selves on  woollen  fabrics,  awaiting  a  father's  or  husband's 
return  from  the  business  and  converse  of  men.  Wander- 
ing eyes  passed  carelessly  over  obscure  walls,  dimly 
discerning,  not  pictures,  as  in  our  day,  plastering  them,  not 
archaeological  curiosities,  and  works  of  a  different  art  and 
country ;  but  figures  repeating  and  beautifying  ordinary 
attitudes,  such  as  retiring  to  and  arising  from  bed,  the 
eiesitt,  and  various  avocations;  goddesses  surrounding 
Paris,  a  Fortune,  slender  and  elegant,  like  the  females  of 
Primaticcio,  or  a  Deidamia  frightened  and  falling  back- 
ward on  a  chair.  Habits,  customs,  occupations,  dress,  and 
monuments,  all  issue  from  one  and  a  unique  source  ;  the 
human  plant  grew  but  on  one  stalk,  which  stalk  had 
never  been  grafted.  At  the  present  time  the  civilisation 
of  the  same  land,  here,  at  Naples,  is  full  of  incongruities, 
because  it  is  older,  and  is  made  up  of  the  contributions  of 
diverse  races.  Spanish,  Catholic,  feudal,  and  northern 
traits  generally  commingle  here,  to  confuse  and  deform 
A  primitive,  pagan,  Italian  sketch.  Naturalness,  accord- 
ingly, and  ease  have  vanished;  all  is  grimace.  Out  oi 
all  one  sees  at  Naples,  how  much  of  it  is  really  indigenous? 
A  love  of  comfort,  dress-coats,  lofty  edifices,  and  indus- 
trial craft,  have  all  come  from  the  North.  Were  man 
true  to  his  instincts  he  would  live  here  as  the  ancients  did, 
that  is  to  say,  half-naked  or  clad  in  mantles  of  linen. 
Ancient  civilisation  grew  out  of  the  climate,  and  a 


THE   CITY   OF   ANTIQUITY,  AND   ITS   LIFE.  51 

appropriate  to  the  climate,  and  this  is  why  it  was  harmo- 
nious and  beautiful 

The  theatre  crowns  the  summit  of  a  hill;  its  seats 
are  of  Parian  marble ;  in  front  is  Vesuvius,  and  the  sea 
radiant  with  morning  splendour.  Its  roof  was  an  awning, 
wliich,  again,  was  sometimes  wanting.  Compare  this 
with  our  nocturnal  edifices,  lighted  by  gas  and  filled 
with  a  mephitic  atmosphere,  where  people  pile  themselves 
up  in  gaudy  boxes  ranged  in  rows  like  suspended  cages  ; 
you  then  appreciate  the  difference  between  a  gymnastic 
natural  life  with  athelctic  forms,  and  our  complicated 
artificial  life  with  its  dress-coats.  The  impression  is  the 
same  in  the  majestic  amphitheatre  exposed  to  the  sun, 
except  that  here  is  the  blot  of  antique  society,  the  Roman 
imprint  of  blood.  The  same  impression  you  find  in  the 
baths ;  the  red  cornice  of  the  frigidarium  is  full  of  charm- 
ing airy  little  cupids,  bounding  away  on  horses  or  con- 
ducting chariots.  Nothing  is  more  agreeable  and  better 
understood  than  the  drying-room,  with  its  vault  covered 
with  small  figures  in  relief  in  rich  medallions,  and  a  file  of 
Hercules  ranged  round  the  wall,  their  vigorous  shoulders 
supporting  the  entablature.  All  these  forms  live  and  are 
healthy ;  none  are  exaggerated  or  overloaded.  What  a 
contrast  on  comparing  with  this  our  modern  bathhouse, 
with  its  artificial,  insipid  nudities,  its  sentimental  and 
voluptuous  designs.  The  bathhouse  nowadays  is  a  wash- 
room ;  in  former  times  it  was  a  pleasant  retreat  and  a 
gymnastic  institution.*  Several  hours  of  the  day  were 
devoted  to  it :  the  muscles  got  to  be  supple  and  the  skin 
brilliant ;  man  here  savoured  of  the  voluptuous  animality 
which  permeated  his  alternately  braced  and  mollified 
flesh ;  he  lived  not  only  through  the  head,  as  now,  but 
through  the  body. 

*  *H  •yv/iyoffTiici}.  We  have  no  term  by  which  to  designate  an  art  em 
bracing  all  that  related  to  the  perfection  of  the  naked  ani  nal. 

K  2 


S-J  NAPLES. 

We  descend  and  leave  the  city  by  the  Street  of  Tombs. 
These  tombs  are  almost  entire;  nothing  can  be  nobler 
than  their  forms,  nothing  more  solemn  without  being 
lugubrious.  Death  was  not  then  surrounded  with  the 
torments  of  ascetic  superstition,  with  ideas  of  hell ;  in  the 
mind  of  the  ancients  it  was  one  of  the  offices  of  man, 
simply  a  termination  of  life,  a  serious  and  not  a  terrible 
thing,  which  one  regarded  calmly  and  not  with  the  shud- 
dering doubts  of  Hamlet.  The  ashes  and  images  of  their 
ancestors  were  preserved  in  their  dwellings  ;  they  saluted 
them  on  entering,  and  the  living  maintained  intercourse 
with  them  ;  at  the  entrance  of  a  city  tombs  were  ranged 
on  both  sides  of  the  street,  and  seemed  to  be  the  primi- 
tive, the  original  city  of  its  founders.  Hippias,  in  one  of 
Plato's  dialogues,  says  that  *  that  which  is  most  beau- 
tiful for  a  man  is  to  be  rich,  healthy,  and  honoured  by 
Greeks,  to  attain  old  age,  to  pay  funeral  honours  to  his 
parents  when  they  die,  and  himself  to  receive  from  his 
children  a  fitting  and  magnificent  burial.' 

The  truest  history  would  be  that  of  the  five  or  six  ideas 
that  rule  in  the  mind  of  man — how  an  ordinary  man,  two 
thousand  years  ago,  regarded  death,  fame,  well-being, 
country,  love,  and  happiness.  Two  ideas  controlled  an- 
cient civilisation ;  the  first,  that  of  man,  and  the  second, 
that  of  the  city :  to  fashion  a  fine  animal,  agile,  tem- 
perate, brave,  hardy,  and  complete,  and  this  through 
physical  exercise  and  selection  of  good  stock ;  and  then 
to  construct  a  small  exclusive  community,  containing  in 
its  bosom  all  that  man  loved  and  respected,  a  kind  of 
permanent  camp  with  the  exigences  of  continual  danger; 
— these  were  the  two  ideas  that  gave  birth  to  all  th« 
rest 


CHAPTER  IV. 

H5E  MU8KO  BOJIBONICO — THE  PAINTINGS,  SCULPTURES,  MANNERS,  CO* 
1OM8,  AND  RELIGION  OF  ANTIQUITY — MODERN  PICTURES,  AND  THH 
SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 

The  Museo  Borbonico. — Most  of  the  paintings  of  Pom- 
peii and  Herculaneum  have  been  removed  to  the  Museo 
at  Naples.  These  consist  principally  of  mural  decorations, 
and  generally  without  perspective,  there  being  one  or  two 
figures  on  a  dark  background,  with  now  and  then  animals, 
slight  landscape  views,  and  sections  of  architecture.  The 
colouring  is  feeble,  it  being  scarcely  more  than  indicated, 
or  rather  subdued,  effaced,  and  not  by  time  (for  I  have 
seen  quite  fresh  pictures),  but  designedly.  To  attract 
the  eye  was  not  an  aim  in  these  somewhat  sombre  apart- 
ments ;  they  delighted  in  an  attitude  or  form  of  the  body, 
the  mind  being  entertained  with  healthy  and  poetic 
images  of  physical  activity.  I  have  derived  more  pleasure 
from  these  paintings  than  from  the  most  celebrated  of 
the  Renaissance  epoch.  There  is  more  nature,  more  life 
in  them. 

The  subjects  have  no  particular  interest,  consisting 
ordinarily  of  a  male  or  female  figure  nearly  nude,  raising 
an  arm  cr  a  leg;  Mars  and  Venus,  Diana  finding  Endy- 
mion,  Briseis  conducted  by  Agamemnon,  and  the  like, 
dancers,  fauns,  centaurs,  a  warrior  bearing  away  a  female, 
who,  so  carried,  is  so  much  at  her  ease  !  Nothing  morg 
IB  requisite,  because  you  feel  at  once  their  beauty  and 


fi4  NAPLES. 

repose.  You  cannot  comprehend,  before  seeing  it,  how 
many  charming  attitudes  a  half-draped  figure,  floating  in 
the  air,  can  present  to  you ;  how  many  ways  a  veil  can 
be  raised,  a  flowing  tunic  arranged,  a  limb  projected,  and  h 
breast  exposed.  The  painters  of  these  pictures  enjoyed  a 
unique  advantage,  one  which  no  others  have  possessed,  eveu 
those  of  the  Renaissance,  of  living  amidst  congenial  social 
customs,  of  constantly  seeing  figures  naked  and  draped  in 
the  amphitheatre  and  in  the  baths,  and  besides  this,  of 
cultivating  the  corporeal  endowments  of  strength  and 
fleetness  of  foot.  They  alluded  to  fine  breasts,  well-set 
necks,  and  muscular  arms  as  we  of  the  present  day  do  to 
expressive  countenances  and  well-cut  pantaloons. 

Two  bronze  statuettes  among  these  paintings  are 
masterpieces.  One,  called  a  Narcissus,  is  a  young  shep- 
herd, nude,  and  bearing  a  goatskin  slung  over  his  shoul- 
der ;  it  might  be  called  an  Alcibiades,  so  ironic  and 
aristocratic  is  the  smile  and  the  turn  of  the  head ;  the 
feet  are  covered  with  the  cneinid,  and  the  fine  chest, 
neither  too  full  nor  too  spare,  falls  to  the  hips  in  a  beauti- 
ful waving  line.  Such  were  Plato's  youths,  educated  in 
the  gymnasium ;  such,  Charmides,  a  scion  of  the  best 
families,  whose  footsteps  his  companions  followed  because 
of  his  beauty  and  his  resemblance  to  a  god.  The  other 
is  a  satyr,  also  nude,  and  more  virile,  dancing  with  hig 
head  thrown  back,  and  with  an  incomparable  expression 
of  gaiety.  It  may  be  said  that  nobody  by  the  side  of 
these  people  ever  so  felt  and  comprehended  the  human 
form.  This  feeling  and  knowledge  were  nourished  by  an 
ensemble  of  surrounding  social  habits  and  ideas  Special 
conditions  had  to  exist  in  order  to  evolve  ;\n  ideal  of 
humanity  out  of  a  nude  human  being  happy  in  simple 
existence,  and  yet  lacking  none  of  man's  grander  intellec- 
tual characteristics.  For  this  reason  the  centre  of  Greek 
art  is  not  painting,  but  sculpture* 


PAlNTIffOS   AND   SCULPTURES    OF   ANTIQUITY.         J5 

Tliere  is  still  another  reason,  which  is  that  a  pose  was 
then  practicable.  To  assume  an  attitude  is,  to-day,  an 
effort  and  an  act  of  vanity,  but  not  so  formerly.  A 
Greek,  in  his  leisure  moments  leaning  against  a  column 
of  the  palestrum  and  contemplating  youths  exercising,  or 
listening  to  a  philosopher  posed  well  because,  first,  he  had 
acquired  full  mastery  of  every  part  of  his  body,  and  next, 
through  aristocratic  pride.  Imposing  demeanour,  and 
that  grave,  noble  aspect  described  by  philosophers,  belong 
to  a  noble  society  composed  of  men  owning  slaves, 
making  war,  and  discussing  laws ;  there  is  no  need  to 
strive  after  it ;  its  natural  and  permanent  source  is  man's 
consciousness  of  his  importance,  courage,  Independence, 
and  dignity.  Look  at  the  easy  deportment  of  the  young 
intelligent  English  nobles  of  the  present  day,  and  of  the 
well-bred  men  of  the  highest  French  families;  society, 
however,  now  renders  the  young  Englishman  too  stiff, 
and  the  young  Frenchman  too  careless ;  in  antiquity  it 
rendered  the  youth  calm  and  sedate.  We  form  some 
idea  of  this  easy  bearing  from  Plato,  who  opposes  to  the 
bustle,  the  ruses,  the  shoutings,  the  slave  characteristics 
of  the  man  of  business,  the  natural  repose  of  the  free 
man,  who  confines  himself  to  the  deliberate  discussion 
of  general  questions,  who  takes  up  and  drops  a  subject  at 
pleasure,  *  who  knows  how  to  adjust  his  g.irrnents  becom- 
ingly, and  who,  with  unerring  tact,  following  the  harmony 
of  philosophic  discourse,  celebrates  the  true  life  of  gods 
and  of  immortals.' 

In  promenading  these  silent  halls  alone  for  a  few  hours, 
the-illusion  grows  on  you.  So  many  mementoes  of  the 
past  render  it,  to  a  certain  extent,  present  and  palpable. 
And  especially  this  assembly  of  white  statues,  which,  in 
this  cold  grey  atmosphere,  like  that  of  a  subterranean 
gallery,  resembles  the  manes  who,  in  mysterious  realms 
underground,  maintain  a  sombre  invisible  existence  ;  or, 


56  NAPLES. 

again,  the  inhabitants  of  those  vacant  circles  whom 
Goethe,  the  great  pagan,  places  around  living  and  tangible 
beings.  Here  are  heroes  and  queens,  *  those  that  have 
acquired  a  name,  or  who  have  aspired  to  some  noble  end,' 
the  elite  of  extinct  generations  ;  here  have  they  descended 
with  '  grave  deportment,  taking  their  places  before  the 
throne  of  powers  whom  no  man  has  fathomed.  Even  in 
Hades  they  maintain  a  proud,  dignified  attitude,  ranging 
themselves  alongside  of  their  equals,  the  familiar  asso- 
ciates of  Persephone,'  whilst  the  ignorant  multitude,  the 
souls  of  the  vulgar,  <  assigned  to  the  depths  where  are  the 
fields  of  Asphodel,  among  tall  poplars,  and  on  sterile 
pasture-ground,  hum  sadly  like  bats  or  spectres,  and  are 
no  longer  men.'  Only  do  ideal  forms  escape  the  engulf- 
ment  of  time,  and  rrcpetuate  for  us  perfect  works  aud 
perfect  thoughts. 

One  forgets  himself  in  the  presence  of  such  noble 
heads,  before  these  stern  Junos,  these  Venuses,  these 
Minervas,  these  broad  breasts  of  heroic  gods,  this  grave 
human  head  of  Jupiter.  One  of  these  heads,  a  Juno,  is 
almost  masculine,  similar  to  that  of  a  proud  contemplative 
young  man.  I  always  returned  to  a  colossal  Flora, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  draped  so  as  to  reveal 
her  forms,  but  of  such  an  austere  dignified  simplicity. 
She  is  a  veritable  goddess;  and  how  superior  to  the 
Madonnas,  the  skeletons,  and  ascetic  sufferers  like  St. 
Bartholomew  or  St.  Jerome  I  A  head  and  an  attitude  of 
this  stamp  are  moral,  but  not  in  a  Christian  sense ;  they 
do  not  inspire  sentiments  of  mystic,  painful  resignation, 
but  a  desire  to  support  life  courageously,  firmly,  and 
calmly,  with  the  proud  consciousness  of  possessing  a 
superior  nature.  I  cannot  enumerate  or  describe  all 
these  heads  ;  what  I  feel  is,  that  of  all  the  arts  sculpture 
is  the  most  Greek,  and  for  this  reason,  that  it  displays  a 
pure  type,  an  abstract  physical  personage,  form  in  itself, 


PAINTINGS   AND   SCULPTURES   OF  ANTIQUITY         A7 

as  a  fine  race  arid  a  gymnastic  life  have  moulded  it ;  and 
because  it  shows  it  independent  of  a  group,  and  not 
subjected  to  expression  and  moral  disturbances,  with 
nothing  to  divert  attention  from  it,  and  before  the  passions 
have  disfigured  it  or  subordinated  its  activity.  This  is, 
^ith  the  Greeks,  the  ideal  type  of  man,  such  as  their 
social  and  moral  conceptions  sought  to  develop  him.  His 
nudity  is  not  indecent,  but  with  them  a  distinctive  trait, 
the  prerogative  of  their  race,  the  condition  of  their  culture, 
the  accompaniment  of  their  great  national  and  religious 
ceremonial.  At  the  Olympic  games  the  athletes  wear  no 
clothing ;  Sophocles,  fifteen  years  old,  strips  himself  to 
sing  the  paeon  after  the  victory  of  Salamina.  We  of 
to-day  sculpture  nudities  only  through  pedantry  or 
hypocrisy ;  they  sculptured  them  in  order  to  express  a 
primitive,  honest  conception  of  the  nature  of  man.  This 
glorious  conception  followed  them  even  into  debauchery ; 
the  paintings  in  their  haunts  of  vice,  as  in  the  lupanan 
of  Pompeii,  exhibit  forms  full  and  robust,  without 
voluptuous  insipidity  or  seductive  softness ;  with  them 
love  is  not  a  debasement  of  the  senses  or  an  ecstasy  of 
the  soul,  but  a  function.  Between  the  brute  and  the 
god,  which  Christianity  opposes  one  to  the  other,  they 
place  man,  who  reconciles  both.  Hence  their  reason  for 
painting  him,  and  especially  for  carving  his  form  in 
sculpture.  Undoubtedly  they  implored  images,  according 
to  the  superstitious  instincts  of  southern  races,  as  their 
descendants  nowadays  implore  the  saints  ;  they  prayed  to 
Diana  and  the  healing  Apollo ;  they  burned  incense  before 
them,  and  poured  out  libations,  as  people  now  present 
rz-votos  and  wax  candles  to  the  Madonna  and  St. 
Januarius.  They  too  had  their  sacred  statuary  in  the 
recesses  of  their  dwellings  and  in  small  oratorios  specially 
adapted  to  them ;  they  repeated  in  their  statues  conse- 
crated attitudes  and  attributes,  a  Venus  Anadyomene,  a 


58  NAPLES. 

Bacchus  sleeping,  as  the  paintings  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury represent  St.  Catherine  on  her  wheel,  and  St.  Paul 
holding  a  sword,  only  the  effect  was  different  as  the, 
spectacle  was  different.  In  the  passing  glance  they 
bestowed  on  these,  instead  of  being  affected  by  a  bony 
figure  or  a  bleeding  heart,  they  were  sensitive  to  a  fine 
round  shoulder,  the  arched  back  of  an  athlete,  and  a 
warrior's  powerful  chest ;  and  on  these  images,  accumula- 
ting from  infancy,  their  mind  dwelt,  forging  for  itself  the 
type  of  man.  All  this  thus  spoke  to  them :  *  Behold 
thyself  as  thou  shouldst  be,  as  thou  shouldst  drape 
thyself!  Strive  to  obtain  flexible  muscles  and  firm  robust 
flesh !  Bathe  thyself,  frequent  the  palestrum,  be  strong 
on  all  occasions  in  behalf  of  thy  city  and  friends ! ' 
V/orks  of  art  of  the  present  time  do  not  address  us  in  this 
fashion ;  we  do  not  go  naked,  and  we  are  not  citizens ; 
our  spokesman  is  Faust  and  Werther,  or  rather  some  late 
Parisian  romance  or  the  Songs  of  Heine. 

It  now  remains  for  me  to  cite  a  few  works  without 
which  the  foregoing  would  be  somewhat  obscure.  The 
following  are  five  or  six  of  the  most  celebrated. 

The  Farnesian  Hercules  is  a  vigorous  porter,  having 
just  lifted  a  piece  of  timber,  and  thinking  that  a  glass  of 
wine  would  not  come  amiss.  It  is  much  too  literal  and 
vulgar ;  he  is  not  a  god  but  an  ox-killer. 

The  Farnesian  Bull.  Amphion  and  Zethes,  obeying 
their  mother  Antiope,  bind  Dirce  to  the  horns  of  a  bull. 
This  work  seems  to  belong  to  the  second  or  third  era  of 
sculpture.  There  are  four  figures  of  life-size,  besides  the 
bull,  some  dogs,  and  a  child.  This  is  a  picture  or  a  drama ; 
the  sculptor  has  sought  to  tell  a  story,  to  excite  pathetic 
interest.  All  the  arts  lower  themselves  in  departing 
from  their  appropriate  sphere. 

There  is  a  superb  head  of  a  horse  in  bronze.  Like  all 
admirable  Greek  horees,  this  one  shows  he  is  not  yet  a 


PAINTINGS   AND   SCULPTURES   OF  ANTIQUITY.         39 

victim  to  training ;  his  spirit  is  intact ;  he  has  the  short 
neck,  intelligent  eye,  and  exuberant  will  of  undisciplined 
horses  still  observable  on  our  landes  or  in  the  north  of 
Scotland.  This  horse  is  a  personage  ;  ours  are  machines. 

The  charming  Naples  Psyche.  This  refined  youthful 
torso,  with  its  delicate  distingue  head,  is  likewise  not  of  the 
great  epoch  of  sculpture  ;  and  still  less  the  Venus  Calli- 
pygis,  apparently  a  boudoir  ornament,  reminding  one  of 
the  pretty  license  of  our  eighteenth  century. 

There  are  innumerable  statues  and  busts  of  actual 
personages  in  marble  and  in  bronze  ;  a  seated  Agrippiua, 
sad  and  energetic;  nine  statues  of  the  Balba  family;  an 
admirable  standing  orator,  preoccupied  with  the  gravity 
of  what  he  is  about  to  utter,  a  veritable  statesman,  and 
worthy  of  the  antique  tribune ;  Tiberius,  Titus,  Antonine, 
Hadrian,  and  Marcus  Aurelius,  all  emperors  and  consuls, 
with  statesmen's  heads  and  a  business-like  aspect  like  our 
modern  cardinals.  On  approaching  nearer  to  our  own 
times  we  find  art  inclining  to  mere  portraiture ;  objects 
are  not  ennobled  but  imitated ;  the  faces  of  Sextus  Em- 
piricus  and  Seneca  look  excited,  anxious,  and  ugly,  strik- 
ingly real,  like  plaster  casts.  Our  Musee  Campana  at 
Paris  shows  that  on  reaching  the  centuries  of  degeneracy 
sculpture  ended  in  the  reproduction  of  morbid  personal 
defects,  such  as  deformities  and  nervous  contortions,  and 
other  insignificant  traits — like  the  bourgeois  characters  of 
Henri  Monnier  photographed  to  the  life. 

Modern  Pictures. — There  are,  I  believe,  seven  or  eight 
hundred  pictures  in  this  collection.  I,  who  am  not  a 
painter,  can  only  give  the  impressions  of  a  man  to  whom 
painting  affords  much  pleasure,  and  who  sees  in  it,  more- 
over, a  complement  of  history. 

Raphael  has  several  portraits,  that  of  a  cardinal,  one  of 
the  chevalier  Tibaldo,  and  another  of  Leo  X.  The  Leo  X. 
IB  a  big  sanctimonious  personage,  tolerably  vulgar,  and  the 


60  NAPLES. 

more  strikingly  BO  contrasted  with  the  acolytes  by  hie 
side,  two  crafty  thoughtful  ecclesiastics.  Raphael's  su- 
periority is  observable  in  his  perfectly  healthy  and  just 
perceptions ;  his  portraits  give  us  the  essence  of  a  man, 
without  any  affectation. 

Ribera. — A  drunken  Silenus,  with  a  huge  paunch,  the 
chest  of  Vitellius,  and  dark  features  as  low  and  cunning 
in  expression  as  those  of  an  inquisitive  Sancho,  and  with 
horribly  crooked  legs :  a  strong  light  and  surrounding 
shadows  render  all  this  brighter  and  more  salient,  and  ae 
a  trumpet-blast  to  this  brutal  insignificance,  this  savage 
energy,  a  jackass  is  braying  with  all  his  might. 

Guercino. — His  charming  Magdalen,  nude  to  tho 
waist,  is  in  the  most  graceful  attitude,  has  the  most 
beautiful  hair,  the  most  beautiful  breasts,  and  the 
sweetest,  tenderest,  scarcely  perceptible  smile  of  dreamy 
melancholy ;  she  is  the  gentlest  and  most  captivating 
of  lovers,  and  is  contemplating  a  crown  of  thorns ! 
How  remote  from  the  simplicity  and  vigour  of  the  pre- 
ceding age  !  The  reign  of  pastorals,  sigisbes,  and  devout 
sentimentality  has  commenced ;  this  Magdalen  is  related 
to  the  Herminias  and  Sophronias  and  the  gentle  heroines 
of  Tasso,  and,  with  them,  is  born  out  of  the  Jesuitical 
reformation. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci. — A  Virgin  and  Child  of  extraordi- 
nary finesse.  Her  eyes  are  downcast,  and  a  strange  mys- 
terious smile  slightly  draws  the  lip  ;  the  face  is  disturbed 
with  the  emotion  of  a  delicate,  sensitive  spirit  of  great 
intellectual  refinement;  behind  the  head  appears  a 
blooming  lily.  This  artist  is  wholly  modern,  infinitely 
in  advance  of  his  age ;  through  him  the  Renaissance  and 
our  own  epoch  touch  without  an  interval.  He  is  already 
a  savant,  an  experimentalist,  an  investigator,  a  sceptic,  to 
which  may  be  added  the  possession  of  the  grace  of  a 
woman,  and  the  chagrined  heart  of  a  man  of  genius. 


MODERN  PICTURES,   AND  THE    16m   CENTURY.      61 

Several  works  by  Parmegiano  are  of  rare  distinction, 
among  which  are  some  heads,  long  and  elegant,  and  among 
them  that  of  a  modest  candid  young  girl,  bearing  an 
expression  of  astonishment.  A  large  portrait  represents 
a  grandee  of  the  day,  evidently  a  man  of  letters,  a  con- 
noisseur and  a  soldier;  he  wears  a  red  cap,  and  his  cuirasa 
lies  in  one  corner;  his  noble  face  is  delicate  and  dreamy, 
the  hair  and  beard  being  abundant  and  of  remarkable 
beauty  ;  a  more  aristocratic  head  could  not  be  imagined. 
You  observe  in  this  head  the  peculiarly  mild  expression  of 
a  student ;  he  is  a  captain,  a  thinker,  and  a  man  of  the 
world.  Parmegiano  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  about  the  commencement  of  the  decline  of  Italy. 
What  genius  and  culture  among  the  men  of  that  day, 
subject  to  the  oppressing  influences  of  degeneracy  !  Head 
the  '  Courtier  '  of  Castiglione,  if  you  would  obtain  an  idea 
of  the  polished,  creative  society  imbued  with  philosophy, 
and  liberal  in  spirit,  then  perishing. 

Its  two  destroyers  are  here,  both  painted  by  Titian ; 
Philip  II.,  pale,  stiff,  irresolute,  and  with  blinking  eyes,  a 
formal  pedant  such  as  the  Venetian  despatches  describe 
him ;  and  the  other  Pope  Paul  III.,  with  a  large  white 
beard,  and  the  air  of  a  brooding  wolf.  There  is  another 
pope  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  with  handsome  regular 
features,  but  black  like  the  waters  of  a  turbid  stream, 
and  looking  obliquely  out  of  half-closed  eyes.  Various 
pictures  complete  this  train  of  ideas  ;  for  example,  that  by 
Micco  Spadaro,  entitled  '  The  Submission  of  Naples  to 
Don  John  of  Austria.'  War  was  tragic  enough  in  those 
days :  we  know  how  the  Spaniards  treated  their  recon- 
quered cities  in  Flanders.  On  the  market  place  and  all 
along  the  street  dense  masses  of  soldiers  stand  with  pikes 
in  hand,  and  muskets  planted  in  their  rests,  awaiting  the 
word  of  command;  flags  float  from  rank  to  rank;  the 
vanquished  city  is  overwhelmed  by  force  and  terror 


62  NAPLES. 

Humbly  on  their  knees  the  magistrates  present  iti 
keys,  and  on  the  pedestal  of  the  statute  of  the  viceroy, 
demolished  by  the  revolutionary  populace,  and  stretched 
along  its  white  base,  are  severed  heads  staining  it  with 
their  dripping  blood ;  high  mournful  houses  behind  it  cast 
lugubrious  shadows,  and  in  the  background  rises  a  great 
barrier  of  mountains.  Eight  years  after  this  the  plague 
comes,  and  50,000  persons  at  Naples  die  of  it;  the  Car- 
thusian monastery  alone  is  preserved,  through  the  inter- 
cession of  its  founder,  and  a  second  picture  by  the  same 
artist  represents  this  singular  scene.  You  see  in  the  air 
St.  Martin  and  the  Virgin  arresting  the  vengeful  arm  of 
Christ,  whilst  an  angel  standing  on  the  ground  drives  off 
the  pestilence  in  the  shape  of  a  hideous  old  hag.  All 
around  are  kneeling  monks  of  the  order,  a  set  of  vulgar 
heads,  depending  upon  their  patron  who  has  taken  their 
business  in  hand. 

One  day  two  shepherd  boys  were  expressing  their 
wishes.  One  exclaimed,  on  breaking  a  piece  of  dry 
bread,  '  If  I  was  king,  I  would  eat  nothing  but  fat ; '  the 
other,  who  was  out  of  breath  chasing  hogs,  exclaimed,  *  If 
I  was  king,  I  would  watch  my  beasts  on  horseback.' 
Now,  if  I  were  king,  I  would  transport  all  these  portraits 
and  historical  subjects  to  my  closet,  and  avail  myself  of 
them  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  history. 

Painters  of  the  second  and  third  rank  abound  here ; 
namely,  Schidone,  Luca  Giordano,  Preti,  and  Josepin, 
all  of  them  really  great  men.  Any  of  the  charming  well- 
developed  vigorous  female  figures  in  the  works  of  Lan- 
franco,  a  pupil  of  Guido,  leaves  far  in  the  background  our 
contemporary  art,  so  elaborate,  so  incomplete,  so  largely 
composed  of  abortive  experiments  or  painful  imitation. 
Their  figures  are  instinct  with  life ;  they  have  suitablei 
well-proportioned  limbs;  there  is  ease,  force,  and  com- 
pleteness in  the  structure  of  the  body  and  in  its  groupings 


MODERN   PICTURES,   AND   TIIE-lGxn   CENTURY.       63 

Their  heads  are  filled  with  colours  and  forms  which  fiVrw 
out  naturally  and  copiously,  and  readily  diffuse  them- 
selves on  their  canvases.  Luca  Giordano,  so  traduced  and 
so  rapid  in  execution,  is  a  genuine  painter  ;  the  animation 
of  his  figures,  and  his  gracefully  moulded  forms,  with  his 
icreshor  ten  ings  and  silk  draperies,  and  the  action  and 
vivacity  of  his  style,  all  announce  the  genius  of  his  art, 
that  is  to  say,  his  ability  to  phase  the  eyt  He  belongs 
to  a  different  thinking  stratum  from  ours;  he  was  not 
nourished  on  philosophy  and  literature,  and  did  not,  like 
Delacroix,  aspire  to  portray  soul-tragedies,  or,  like  De- 
camps, to  express  the  outward  world  of  nature,  or,  like 
BO  many  others,  to  make  pictures  out  of  archaeology  and 
history. 

The  Danae,  by  Titian.  This  artist,  certainly,  had  no 
aesthetic  system  ;  all  he  cared  for  was  to  paint  a  splendid 
woman,  a  superb  patrician's  mistress.  This  head  is 
quite  vulgar — nothing  beyond  the  voluptuous  ;  it  is  pro- 
bably that  of  some  fisherman's  daughter,  willing  to  live 
idly,  feed  well,  and  wear  pearl  necklaces.  But  what  flesh 
tones  relieving  on  that  white  linen,  and  on  that  golden 
hair  in  such  wild  disorder  about  the  throat  I  What  a  per- 
fect hand  projecting  from  that  diamond  bracelet,  and  what 
beautiful  fingers  and  a  yielding  form  !  There  is  another 
on  a  neighbouring  canvas  by  an  unknown  artist  su- 
perior in  character,  with  the  hand  resting  over  the  head, 
a  flowering  plant  by  her  side,  and  in  the  distance  a  land- 
scape of  blue  mountains.  She  is  grave,  and  her  serious 
expression,  like  that  of  animals,  is  slightly  tinged  with 
melancholy.  This  is  what  ennobles  this  style  of  art 
Voluptuousness  here  is  not  indelicate,  because  it  ia 
perfectly  natural;  man  does  not  lower  himself  to  it, 
for  he  is  on  a  level  with  it,  while  the  grandeur  of  the 
scenery,  coupled  with  the  magnificence  of  the  archi- 
tecture and  a  serene  sky,  throw  around  it  the  charms  ol 


04  NAPLES. 

poetry.  Man  thus  completes  himself;  it  is  one  of  the, 
five  or  six  great  developments  of  existence.  This  one 
does  not  suffer  by  comparison ;  it  is  as  it  ought  to  be, 
finished,  perfect;  to  reduce  it,  to  purify  it,  would  be  to 
take  away  its  essential  beauty,  to  injure  a  rare  flower 
the  like  of  which  no  other  civilisation  ever  produced ;  one 
might  as  well  insist  on  the  tulip  possessing  a  less  ardent 
hue,  or  the  rose  a  less  exquisite  fragrance.  In  front  of 
this,  and  by  an  inferior  hand,  is  a  Venus  and  Adonis,  the 
former  being  fat  and  ruddy,  with  cheeks  and  mouth 
somewhat  overcharged  with  colour,  and  naked,  except  a 
strip  of  thin  drapery,  panting  with  desire  and  incapable  of 
imagining  anything  nobler.  And  why  not  ?  Who  would 
wish  her  otherwise  in  this  warm  shadow,  so  deliciously 
imprisoning  the  amber  tones  of  her  fine  form  trembling 
in  this  warm  light,  palpitating  like  water  in  the  glow  of 
sunset,  resting  on  that  rich  red  mantle  with  that  golden 
overturned  vase  by  her  side  sending  forth  its  brilliant 
reflections?  Every  great  school  of  art  is  an  existence  in 
its  own  right,  the  same  as  every  natural  group  of  mor- 
If  systems  suffer  we  do  not 


CHAPTER  V. 

SOCIAL   STATE— POLITICS,   SCIENCE,   AND  RELIGION. 

Conversations. — In  the  cafes,  in  the  railway  carriages,  and 
in  the  drawing-rooms  politics  forms  the  substance  of  all 
discourse.  Minds  seem  to  be  in  a  state  of  ebullition  ; 
there  is  apparently  the  same  ardour  and  vivacity,  and  the 
same  convictions  as  with  us  in  1790.  The  newspapers, 
which  are  very  numerous,  widely  diffused,  and  cheap, 
exhibit  the  same  tone.  For  example  : — 

I  passed  my  first  evening  with  a  sculptor  and  a  physician. 
According  to  these  gentlemen,  the  brigands  to  the  south 
(which  prevents  me  from  visiting  Paestum)  are  simply 
brigands.  They  kill,  burn,  and  rob.  Brigandage  is  a 
profession,  and  a  very  good  profession  ;  the}  even  practise 
it  on  people  of  their  own  party.  If  they  are  denounced, 
they  set  fire  to  the  dwelling  of  the  informer,  and  so  ter- 
rorise over  the  villages.  In  addition  to  this,  it  requires, 
in  such  mountains  and  thickets,  a  hundred  soldiers  to 
catch  one  man.  « Is  it  not  a  Vendee  ?  '  I  ask.  '  No ;  the 
comparison  is  unworthy.'  '  Nevertheless  the  country  is 
Catholic,  and  the  people  are  imaginative  and  fanatical  ? ' 
'  No :  it  is  nothing  but  a  land  of  brigands.'  Thereupon 
my  friends  become  excited ;  they  see  only  one  idea,  and 
are  inflated,  like  our  early  revolutionists,  by  newspaper 
phrases :  resentment  is  ready,  and  their  hopes  are  infinite. 

According  to  them,  again,  the  existing  evil  comes  from 
France,  which,  in  maintaining  the  Pope  at  Rome,  up- 
holds a  hotbed  of  intrigue.  Rome  is  an  abscess  affect- 
9 


66  NAPLES. 

ing  the  entire  body.  For  sixty  years  France  has  madu 
immense  progress  in  science  and  in  general  prosperity, 
but  none  in  religion  or  morality ;  she  is  as  low  as  she 
ever  was  in  her  subserviency  to  the  clergy.  Here  cornea 
in  a  flood  of  eighteenth  century  phrases. 

'  The  struggle  in  Italy,  they  say,  is  between  education 
and  ignorance.  The  intelligent  class  is  wholly  liberal — 
the  middle  class,  be  it  understood.  The  nobles  are  ob- 
stinate :  look  at  the  great  aristocratic  faubourg  on  the  road 
to  Herculaneum,  all  the  houses  of  which  are  shut  up. 
The  populace  of  Naples,  to  which  the  Bourbons  granted 
every  license,  are  not  content,  and  if  the  Austrians  should 
return  there  would  be  violence ;  but  the  true  people,  the 
artisans,  the  men  who  at  bottom  are  honest  and  who 
labour,  are  slowly  rallying.  If  there  were  four  of  these  in 
the  retrograde  party  the  day  after  the  Revolution,  there 
are  only  two  to-day.  Liberty  is  producing  its  effect. 
The  army,  especially,  is  a  school  of  union,  instruction,  and 
honour.  The  soldiers  are  learning  to  read  and  to  write  ; 
they  hear  people  talk  about  Garibaldi,  Victor  Emmanuel, 
and  love  of  country.  Families  are  no  longer  made 
miserable,  as  formerly,  by  having  their  children  torn  from 
them.  There  are  men  of  every  class  in  the  ranks  ;  sons 
of  peasants  march  side  by  side  with  the  sons  of  lawyers 
and  of  doctors.  Military  substitution  is  difficult :  a  man 
knowing  how  to  read,  write,  and  calculate,  must  furnish 
another  knowing  how  to  read,  write,  and  calculate  •  the 
eon  of  a  certain  noble,  unable  to  find  a  substitute  of  this 
kind,  had  to  go  himself.  A  great  war  like,  that  of  1792 
is  wanted  to  concentrate  all  these  diversities  through  the 
confraternity  of  arms.  Your  nation  is  a  great  one,'  they 
add ;  '  you  have  emancipated  yourselves  from  slavery ; 
you  do  not  suffer  the  hundred  thousand  infamies  and 
miseries  of  the  Bourbon  regime.  You  can  comprehend 
how  we  also  need  our  Revolution.' 


SOCIAL   STATE.  67 

Another  conversation  with  a  man  about  thirty  in  a 
railway  carriage,  a  cotton-broker.  He  is  scouring  the 
environs,  and  buying  up  crops  to  resell  to  the  English 
the  countiy  round  Vesuvius  being  now  planted  with 
cotton. 

According  to  him,  *  they  have  in  his  line  for  three 
years  past  made  astonishing  progress.  Under  the  Bour- 
bons it  was  impossible  to  do  anything,  even  to  sell  or  to 
buy.  There  was  no  commerce  whatever ;  they  were 
averse  to  contracts  with  strangers,  and  discouraged  the 
entry  and  export  of  merchandise.  Now  that  we  are  free 
everj  thing  is  different.  The  peasant,  sure  of  earning 
money,  sows  and  works,  even  in  summer.  At  midday  he 
rests,  the  heat  being  terrible ;  but  at  evening  and  in  the 
morning,  during  the  supportable  hours,  he  goes  into  the 
field.  Under  the  Bourbons  people  did  not  and  could  not 
do  but  three  things  -  drink,  eat,  and  occasionally  amuse 
themselves;  there  was  complete  prohibition  in  every 
other  respect ;  no  study,  no  newspapers,  and  no  discus- 
sion of  religion  or  politics ;  denunciations  were  perpetual, 
and  imprisonments  frightful ;  one  felt  himself  liable  at 
any  moment  to  the  touch  of  the  hand  of  an  inquisitor. 
Let  us  have  twenty  years  to  ourselves,  and  you  will  see 
what  a  change  there  will  be  ! ' 

He  had  travelled  in  the  South,  and  stated  that  'the 
brigands  form  a  sort  of  clwuanncrie*  but  of  a  low  order. 
The  peasant  is  not  very  hostile  to  them,  because  he  is 
ignorant  and  superstitious.  Besides,  it  is  impossible  to 
penetrate  the  boschi  where  they  conceal  themselves,  and 
Rome  is  constantly  sending  them  recruits.' 

Everywhere  brigands,  nobody  speaks  of  anything  else. 
According  to  the  Liberal  newspapers, '  they  are  fit  only  for 

*  In  the  war  of  La  Vend&>,  during  the  Eevolittion  in  France,  the  peasantry 
whose  sentiments  were  in  favour  of  the  Bourbons  were  called  chouans,  and 
gtganised  attempts  at  insurrection  chouanneries. — T*. 
v  9 


68  NAPLES. 

the  galleys,  while,  according  to  the  clerical  journals, 
*they  are  insurgent  martyrs.'  Desiring  to  form  an 
opinion  for  myself,  I  read  the  diary  of  General  Serge's,  a 
Spaniard  and  a  Bourbonite,  who  recently  traversed  the 
kingdom  of  Naples  from  end  to  end,  but  who  was  taken 
and  shot  a  few  leagues  from  the  Roman  frontier.  After 
reading  this  the  following  facts  may  be  depended  en, 
Borges  was  a  sort  of  Vendean,  and  he  had  with  him  some 
honest  persons,  for  instance,  his  officers.  He  encounters 
a  certain  number  of  Bourbonites,  shepherds,  peasantry, 
and  former  soldiers,  but  a  very  small  number.  The 
bands  supporting  him,  and  holding  the  country  before  his 
landing,  are  composed  of  robbers  and  assassins,  who 
repeatedly,  on  taking  a  town  or  hamlet,  kill,  pillage,  and 
maltreat,  and  carry  on  war  like  savages.  The  national 
guard  and  the  well-to-do  people  are  everywhere  against 
them. 

My  hostess  at  Sorrento  said  to  me,  '  Here  and  in  the 
neighbourhood  you  will  find  three  Piedmontese  for  one 
Bourbonite ;  but  over  there,  to  the  South,  there  are  three 
Bourbonites  for  one  Piedmontese.'  All  this  is  easily 
understood. 

Here  is  another  conversation  at  Castellamare,  this 
time  with  a  retired  subordinate  officer ;  he  is  a  fanatic, 
and  speaks  with  the  air  of  one  trying  to  make  converts. 
He  says  '  that  priests  are  the  authors  of  all  the  trouble ; 
that  in  France  they  are  pious  and  honest,  but  that  here 
thoy  are  robbers  and  assassins,  and  that  the  head-quarters 
of  their  conspiracies  is  at  Rome.  He  cites  the  famous 
General  Manhes  under  Murat,  who,  in  order  to  starve  out 
brigands,  forbade,  under  penalty  of  death,  a  morsel  of 
bread  being  taken  outside  the  towns,  and  on  a  priest 
leaving  to  take  the  host  to  a  dying  man,  had  him  shot, 
col  santissimo  nella  mano.'  He  showed  me  the  way  to  a 
celebrated  chapel,  and,  on  my  entering,  shiugged  hia 


SOCIAL  STATE.  68 

ihoulders  in  a  significant  manner.  Is  it  not  curious, 
after  a  lapse  of  sixty  years,  to  encounter  Jacobins  ! 

The  more  I  read  the  newspapers,  the  more  I  talk  with 
people,  the  more  do  I  find  the  resemblance  striking.  We 
also,  at  first,  had  only  a  liberal  middle-class ;  the  national 
property  had  to  be  sold,  and  a  foreign  invasion  take 
place  in  order  to  rally  our  peasanty  to  the  Eovolutioa. 
We  also  battled  with  an  intestine  insurrection,  and 
witnessed  a  civil  war  in  the  most  ignorant  and  most 
religious  section  of  the  country.  We  also  improvised 
echools,  a  national  guard,  an  army,  and  legal  tribunals. 
We  also  beheld  nobles  emigrate  with  the  king,  and,  later, 
seclude  themselves  sullenly  on  their  estates.  Here  it  ia 
the  small  edition  of  a  great  work  ;  but  the  new  volume  is 
not  yet  stitched — its  sheets  hold  together  badly.  Before 
it  can  acquire  consistency  like  ours  it  must  undergo  a  ten 
years'  grinding  process  under  heavy  burdens,  or,  in  other 
words,  dread  the  interference  of  strangers. 

An  evening  with  Magistrates,  Professors,  and  Literary 
men.  —  The  greatest  obstacle  here  in  the  way  of  the 
Government  is  the  large  number  of  privileged  persons 
maintained  under  the  Bourbons,  and  who  are  now  out  of 
place.  For  example,  there  was  a  large  manufactory  of 
iron  fabrics,  which  cost  the  Government  two  millions  a 
year,  and  which  yielded  nothing;  the  workmen  had 
gradually  been  replaced  by  sons  of  officers  or  by  employes 
receiving  five  francs  a  day  as  locksmiths,  overseers,  &c., 
and  who  only  came  at  the  end  of  the  month  to  receive 
their  pay,  a  small  number  making  their  appearance  in  the 
bureaux  between  the  hours  of  eleven  and  three.  The 
Revolution  occurred,  and  their  wages  were  stopped.  They 
made  a  great  noise,  however,  and  were  paid.  The 
manufactory  is  found  to  be  too  costly,  and  it  is  put  up  at 
auction.  Nobody  appears  to  bid.  Finally,  a  bold  specu- 
lator agrees  to  take  it  for  ten  years,  and  pay  a  rent  of 


70  NAPLES 

48,000  ducats.  Assembling  the  employes  and  pretended 
workmen,  the  new  master  says  to  them,  *  I  will  pay  you 
as  formerly,  but  on  condition  that  you  do  the  work  of  a 
full  day.'  This  is  greeted  with  shouts  and  reclamations* 
'  Very  well,  then,  work  as  yon  please,  and  I  will  pay  you 
by  the  hour.'  This  is  followed  by  a  riot.  The  bersaglieri 
are  welcomed  with  stones,  to  which  they  retort  with 
shot  Since  that  time  order  is  restored,  and  the 
manufactory  begins  to  operate,  the  famished  sinecurista 
meanwhile  being  furious.  One  of  these  said  to  me,  *  Look 
at  this  miserable  Piedmontese  Government  I  I  held  a 
position  of  1,200  francs  a  year,  which  left  me  free  the 
whole  day,  so  that  I  could  attend  to  business  in  another 
place  at  a  bankers.  Now  that  I  am  married  and  have 
two  children,  these  rascals  suppress  it ! '  So  was  it  in 
1791  with  the  household  officers  of  the  king,  queen, 
dauphin, and  princes,  the  menins  (foster-brothers),  captains, 
masters  of  the  hounds,  &c. 

King  Ferdinand,  like  Louis  XV.,  meddled  with  State 
supplies.  His  effective  army  consisted  of  ninety-five 
thousand  men ;  a  hundred  thousand  were  put  in  the 
budget,  and  he  appropriated  the  surplus  to  himself. 
Besides  this  he  reserved  for  himself,  his  favourites,  and 
his  secretaries,  the  right  of  making  appointments  :  there 
were  consequently  two  sorts  of  office-holders,  the  fat  one, 
who  came  monthly  to  the  bureau  to  get  his  pay,  and  the 
lean  one,  who  performed  the  service,  and  got  a  quarter  of 
the  remuneration. 

These  people  are  all  greatly  irritated,  which  is  not 
strange.  The  priests  likewise  are  in  no  better  humour,  and 
they  have  no  reason  to  be.  They  have  lost  credit,  and 
no  longer  take  the  wall.  Three  years  ago  there  were  so 
many  monks  and  ecclesiastics  at  Naples,  that  a  lady  in 
the  house  i:i  which  I  lodged,  in  a  frequented  stre.t,  stood 
at  a  window  and  counted  a  hundred  per  hour  passing  it 


SOCIAL   STATE.  Tl 

Almost  every  family  numbered  one  son  an  ecclesiastic. 
To-day  they  are  not  so  numerous.  After  the  E evolution 
they  concealed  themselves ;  but  now  they  are  again  ap 
pearing,  in  companies  of  two  or  three,  going  out  and 
taking  their  usual  promenades.  They  think  that  the 
Government  wants  to  starve  them,  and  that  in  seques- 
trating convent  property  it  declared  itself  their  enemy  • 
and  they  consequently  are  working  against  it,  especially 
through  the  women. 

There  are  fourteen  thousand  men  in  the  national  guard 
of  Naples,  which  for  a  city  numbering  five  hundred 
thousand  inhabitants,  is  not  a  great  number.  They  pre- 
tend that  they  might  have  double  this  number,  which  again 
is  not  a  great  deal.  They  state  that  the  lower  class  is 
enormously  large,  and  that  it  cannot  yet  be  trusted  with 
arms ;  it  counts  for  nothing,  and  has  yet  to  be  instructed ; 
besides,  there  is  nothing  to  fear  from  it,  as  it  is  not  capable 
of  erecting  barricades;  three  years  ago,  in  the  absence  of 
all  other  authority,  the  national  guard  was  amply  sufficient 
to  maintain  order.  The  same  state  of  things  exists  in  the 
municipalities ;  the  captains  prefer  to  enrol  only  a  few 
men ;  they  do  not  accept  half-way  vagabonds,  or  those 
compromised  with  the  former  Government.  Besides,  the 
peasants  are  all  armed,  and  walk  about  with  guns  on  their 
shoulders — an  old  custom,  the  effect  of  the  vendetta  and 
of  inveterate  habits  of  brigandage.  When  Victor  Em- 
manuel cameti  ey  all  crowded  around  him  thus  accoutred, 
n  liich  affords  substantial  proof  of  their  not  feeling  them- 
selves conquered  or  oppressed.  A  foreign  ambassador 
present  on  that  occasion  remarked,  *  Italy  is  made.' 

I  have  to  return  to  the  national  guard  of  fourteen 
thousand  men.  These  figures  simply  indicate  a  govern- 
ing bourgeoisie,  and  justify,  up  to  a  certain  point,  thd 
declaration  of  its  adversaries ;  such,  for  instance,  as  that  of 
a  fanatical,  provincial  Neapolitan  marquis  at  Paris  who, 


72  NAPLES 

in  my  presence,  fifteen  days  ago,  charged  the  national 
guard  with  being  a  coterie,  calling  them  traitors  and  in- 
struments of  the  Piedmontese,  and  declaring  that  both  tho 
nobles  and  the  people,  save  a  few  deserters,  were  now 
bending  beneath  a  yoke  and  indignantly  murmuring* 
The  reply  to  this  is  to  make  me  read  the  clerical  gazettes 
sold  at  Naples  and  in  the  streets,  which  repeat  the  same 
charges,  only  in  stronger  terms,  thereby  proving  that 
nobody  is  gagged.  Again,  the  garrison  of  Naples  is  six 
thousand  men.  Is  this  sufficient  to  keep  down  a  city  of 
five  hundred  thousand  disposed  to  rebel?  As  to  the 
means  of  gaining  over  the  peasantry,  they  state  that  *  the 
Government  does  not  possess,  as  the  Convention  did,  an 
enormous  amount  of  national  property  to  sell  to  them; 
that,  since  the  first  Napoleon,  the  feudal  regime  has  been 
abolished  throughout  the  kingdom,  and  that  already  a 
great  number  of  peasants  have  become  proprietors. 
Meanwhile  the  confiscated  property  of  the  convents  is  to 
be  disposed  of,  and  the  sale  of  this  will  rally  to  the  sup- 
port of  the  Revolution  numerous  purchasers ;  besides 
which,  they  can  depend  on  new  clearings  and  productions, 
and  on  the  general  increase  of  public  wealth.  The  country 
is  of  marvellous  fertility :  the  soil  sometimes  yields  seven 
crops  in  a  season,  grapes,  grains,  vegetables,  oranges,  nuts, 
&o.  For  two  years  past  the  cultivation  of  cotton  has  in- 
creased on  all  sides,  and  the  profits  have  been  enormous ; 
instead  of  eight  or  ten  ducats  the  quintal,  it  has  amounted 
to  thirty-two  and  forty.  Peasants  now  at  the  cafes  pull 
dollars  out  of  their  pockets;  they  pay  borrowed  suma 
and  mortgages ;  they  begin  to  purchase  land,  which  is  a 
passion  with  them,  and  in  some  places  one  crop  has 
proved  sufficient  to  pay  for  the  soil  acquired.  It  has  been 
remarked  that  for  a  long  time  brigandage  is  less  frequent, 
and  that  there  is  more  of  labour  in  districts  where  small 
abound ;  and  in  this  view  of  things  Murat  legis* 


POLITICS,   SCIENCE,   AND  RELIGION.  73 

lated.  Accordingly  they  are  now  beginning  in  varioua 
places  to  alienate  and  partition  land.  Add  to  this  the 
mortmain  tenures  before  mentioned,  the  influx  of  foreign 
capital,  and  that  manufactures  are  being  established,  and 
newspapers  diffused;  also,  as  experience  shows,  that  a 
Neapolitan  learns  to  read  and  write  in  three  months,  no 
race  being  more  subtle,  more  prompt  in  seizing  on 
and  comprehending  ideas  of  all  kinds.  The  peasant 
enriched  and  enlightened  will  become  a  Liberal. 

One  of  the  company  present  gives  a  recent  conversa- 
tion with  a  soldier.  This  man  had  served  under  the 
Bourbons.  When  Garibaldi  landed  with  his  little  band, 
a  report  spread  that  he  was  accompanined  with  sixty 
thousand  men,  whereupon,  with  the  consent  of  their 
captain,  each  member  of  the  company  laid  down  his  arms 
and  accoutrements  and  proceeded  tranquilly  homewards. 
On  Victor  Emmanuel  being  proclaimed,  our  friend  en- 
countered  this  man,  and  made  him  ashamed  of  himself,  and, 
indicating  him  as  a  suitable  recruit,  had  him  re-enlisted. 
A  year  expired,  and  he  met  him  again.  This  time  the 
man  is  overjoyed  and  full  of  gratitude ;  he  has  a  martial 
air,  and  he  exclaims,  *  Ah,  your  Excellence,  how  happy 
I  am !  I  have  been  to  Milan,  Turin,  and  a  good  many 
other  cities  I  And  I  know  how  to  read  I ' 

'  And  to  write  ?  '  responds  our  friend. 

'  Not  very  well  yet ;    but  I  can  write  my  name.' 

'  Here,'  says  the  gentleman,  *  is  a  piastre ;  and  when 
you  shall  have  learned  to  write  you  shall  have  another.' 

This  man  was  transformed  by  military  service;  it 
disciplines  a  man,  and  creates  habits  of  cleanliness,  and 
instils  into  him  sentiments  of  honour  and  love  of  country* 
Our  friend,  addressing  another,  remarked,  '  You  are 
going  now  to  fight  for  the  king.'  '  No,'  he  replied,  not 
for  king,  but  for  country:  there  is  a  parliament  now.1 
They  read  newspapers,  costing  them  a  cent,  and  employ 


74  NAPLES. 

the  high-sounding  terms  which  are  often  so  vapid  and  so 
abused,  but  at  this  moment  so  true  and  noble  and  of  such 
powerful  effect.  Two  Italians  in  a  railroad  carriage  with 
me,  on  coming  in  sight  of  Naples  after  five  years'  absence, 
remarked  one  to  the  other,  *  They  are  improving ;  they 
are  almost  a  moral  people.' 

They  require  time;  time  will  consolidate  all  things, 
even  the  finances :  at  present  these  are  the  great  sore* 
Last  year  the  deficit  was  a  million  a  day.  They  will 
improve  gradually  as  the  nation  produces  and  consumes 
more.  During  the  year  just  closed  Naples  disposed  of  cot- 
ton amounting  to  a  hundred  millions,  and  this  year  the  crop 
will  be  still  more  valuable.  Custom  duties  in  the  south 
used  to  produce  very  little,  as  smugglers  had  their  own 
way ;  but  now  other  officers  have  been  installed,  and  an 
inspector,  a  brother  of  one  of  our  friends,  states  that  the 
increase  this  year  will  amount  to  seven  hundred  thousand 
ducats. 

There  is  another  sign  of  pacification.  The  Government 
has  removed  the  Madonna  boxes  from  the  corners  of  the 
streets ;  these  were  often  found  in  the  morning  marked 
with  dagger-blows,  given  either  by  the  Mazzinians  or  the 
Bourbonites,  and  they  have  accordingly  been  deposited  in 
neighbouring  churches.  In  certain  quarters  the  women 
assemble  and  wring  their  hands,  and  indulge  in  lamenta- 
tions, but  in  others  this  step  is  regarded  favourably,  for 
they  were  often  desecrated  by  profanities  and  pollution! 
against  the  wall  beneath  them. 

An  interesting  experiment  is  being  tried  here,  and  one 
worthy  of  close  attention,  that  of  a  revolution  less  violent 
than  our  own,  and  less  affected  by  foreign  intervention ; 
the  same  at  bottom,  since  it  involves  the  transformation 
of  a  feudal  into  a  modern  community,  but  differing  in 
this  respect,  that  the  transformation  goes  on  in  a  closed 
retort  and  without  explosion ;  it  is  true,  however, 


POLITICS,   SCIENCE,   AND   RELIGION.  79 

that  an  Austrian  bayonet  would  shatter  the  retort  in 
pieces. 

The  same  activity  and  exuberance  is  apparent  in  science 
and  religion  as  in  politics.  The  university  contains  ten 
thousand  students  and  sixty  professors.  A  student's 
lodging  costs  sixty  francs  per  mouth,  and  he  lives  on 
macaroni,  fruits,  and  vegetables ;  people  in  the  country 
eat  but  little,  and  necessaries  are  consequently  cheap. 
German  erudition  and  methods  prevail.  Hegel  is  read 
with  facility.  M.  Vera,  his  most  zealous  and  best  accre- 
dited interpreter,  has  a  chair  here.  M.  Spaventa  is  trying 
to  discover  an  Italian  philosophy,  and  shows  Gioberti  to 
be  a  sort  of  Italian  Hegel.  You  thus  see  amour-propre 
and  national  prepossessions  penetrating  even  into  the 
realm  of  pure  reason.  Yesterday  a  newspaper  warmly 
commended  a  modern  Italian  picture  exhibited  in  the 
Musee,  and  complained  of  the  Italians  for  not  sufficiently 
admiring  their  own  artists,  and  of  committing  the  weakness 
of  too  greatly  admiring  foreign  art.  All  this  is  naive,  but 
sincere. 

Young  people  and  the  public  generally  take  great 
interest  in  these  researches.  Naples  is  the  land  of  Vico, 
and  has  always  possessed  philosophical  aptitude.  Lately 
a  great  crowd  thronged  to  an  exposition  of  the  *  Pheno- 
menology' of  Hegel :  they  translate  his  technical  terms 
and  abstractions  without  any  difficulty — and  such  ab- 
stractions I  The  system  spreads  from  the  centre  to 
all  its  diverse  branches.  The  law  course  is  especially 
strong,  and  arranged  wholly  according  to  the  German 
manner.  The  students  are  as  yet  confined  to  the  formulas 
rmd  classifications  of  Hegel,  but  the  professors  are  begin- 
ing  to  overstep  these  limits,  and  to  pursue  their  own 
methods,  each  in  his  own  fashion  and  according  to  his  intel- 
lectual capacity.  Ideas  are  still  vague  and  floating, 
everything  being  in  a  state  of  formation. 


76  NAPLES. 

Meanwhile  one  may  question  whether  their  food  is  well 
selected,  and  if  fresh  minds  can  assimilate  such  aliment;  it 
is  tough,  ill-cooked  meat :  they  feast  on  it  with  youthful 
appetites  as  the  scholastics  of  the  twelfth  century 
devoured  Aristotle,  in  spite  of  the  disproportion  and  the 
danger  of  indigestion  and  even  of  strangling.  A  culti- 
vated foreigner  who  has  resided  here  for  the  past  tea 
years  replies  to  me  that  the  most  difficult  reasoning  and 
all  German  dissertations  are  comprehended  naturally,  but 
that  French  books  are  much  less  so.  If  they  read  Vol- 
taire's romances,  they  find  but  little  amusement  in  them ; 
they  do  not  feel  his  grace,  and  regard  his  irony  simply  a3 
a  means  of  evading  censure.  M.  Renan,  whom  they 
admire  infinitely,  seems  to  them  timid :  '  Why,'  they  ask, 
'does  he  take  so  many  precautions  ?  he  is  a  delicate  restorer 
of  Christianity.'  His  finished  art,  his  tact,  his  sentiment, 
so  poetic,  and  comprehensive,  escapes  them  entirely  ;  they 
have  translated  his  book,  and  ten  thousand  copies  have 
been  sold  at  Naples  ;  they  would  consider  it  a  privilege 
to  see  and  to  handle  his  autograph ;  but  their  admira- 
tion is  for  the  combatant  and  not  the  critic.  Hence  the 
success  of  *  Le  Maudit',*  which  title  figures  in  the  win- 
dows of  every  bookstore  in  Naples.  They  are  delighted 
with  heavy  artillery  of  this  description.  They  demand 
a  vigorous  attack,  a  bold  exhibition  of  facts :  they  are 
avenging  themselves  of  their  former  slavery. 

There  are  no  good  periodicals :  the  fashion  of  penny 
papers  prevails,  and  the  editorial  standard  is  in  keeping. 
The  telegraphic  news  of  the  morning  is  the  first  thing,  and 
if  enforced  with  a  gross  tirade  all  the  better.  They  sub- 
ject our  French  journals  to  this  standard  of  criticism; 
they  do  not  appreciate  the  quiet  eloquence,  concise  style, 
and  delicate  irony  of  Prevost-Paradol,  much  preferring 

*  A  well-known  romance,  purporting  to  narrate  the  experience  of  a  Jesuit 
prieet,  and  in  which  the  practices  of  the  Itomieh  Church  are  exposed. — T«. 


POLITICS,   SCIENCE,   AND   RELIGION.  71 

the  premiers  Paris  of  the  democratic  organs.  Let  us  beat 
in  mind  our  own  journals  of  1789 — their  declamation, 
high-sounding  terms,  and  empty  rhetoric. 

Whilst  breakfasting  yesterday  at  a  cafe  I  observed  in  one 
of  the  penny  papers  a  curious  feuilleton,  consisting  of  the 
fourth  lecture  of  Professor  Ferrari  on  the  *  Philosophy  of 
History,'  in  which  ideas  derived  from  the  early  investi- 
gations of  Giannone  in  relation  to  religious  history  are 
expounded.  According  to  Giannone,  the  early  Christians 
were  not  believers  in  paradise ;  their  fundamental  dogma 
was  the  resurrection  of  the  body :  up  to  the  resurrection 
the  dead  remained  in  a  sort  of  state  of  passivity  and  ex- 
pectancy. Theology,  gradually  developing,  placed  dead 
believers  apart ;  soon  St.  Augustine  awards  them  a  pre- 
liminary semi-beatitude,  and  under  Pope  St.  Gregory  they 
ascend  at  once  into  heaven.  Ideas  like  these,  so  freely 
explored  and  so  widely  popularised,  must  evidently  pro- 
duce a  great  effect. 

The  Jesuit  College  is  now  under  the  ban  of  Victor 
Emmanuel.  In  the  street  you  see  scholars  belonging  to 
various  establishments,  no  longer  led  by  a  priest  but  by  a 
sergeant.  On  this  transformation,  and  on  the  increase 
of  sources  of  public  education,  their  strongest  hopea 
are  built.  Fifty-eight  public  district-schools  have  been 
established  in  Naples,  and  one  in  each  principal  town. 
There  are  a  great  -many  readers  amongst  the  middle  class. 
All  the  interesting  and  learned  productions  of  Germany, 
England,  and  France  may  be  found  at  Detken's  book- 
store; all  the  best  wor^s  on  physiology,  law,  language,  and 
especially  philosophy,  find  purchasers :  his  store  is  a  sort 
of  literary  and  scientific  club-room.  To  converse  freely 
and  on  all-important  subjects  is  for  them  the  highest 
gratification.  *  Three  years  ago,'  they  say,  *  even  with 
closed  doors  we  dared  not  speak.  Had  we  been  seen 
collected  together,  a  spy  would  have  tracked  us  at  once.1 


73  NAPLES. 

They  are  now  ill  all  the  ardour  of  production  and  of  re- 
naissance. A  strong  force  is  excavating  Pompeii,  and  the 
new  discoveries  are  published  in  magnificent  form,  illus- 
trated with  polychromatic  drawings.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
look  at  their  fine  Italian  heads  and  expressive  eyes,  and 
anderneatli  a  certain  circumspect  air,  to  detect  the  ardent 
glow  within;  they  openly  or  tacitly  express  a  pro- 
found joy,  like  that  of  a  man  on  first  moving  his  limba 
after  having  been  a  long  time  confined  in  prison.  In 
respect  to  ideas  they  do  not  lack  suitable  preparation ; 
already  under  the  Bourbons  two  or  three  booksellers  made 
fortunes  by  smuggling  and  paying  custom-house  officials 
and  inspectors,  concealing  their  books  under  their  beds, 
and  disposing  of  them  at  quintuple  rates.  In  this  way 
excellent  libraries  were  formed  oven  in  the  provinces,  for 
instance,  that  of  the  father  of  the  poet  Leopardi.  This 
or  that  retired  bourgeois  or  petty  noble  studied,  not 
assuredly  for  fame  or  profit  (because  it  was  dangerous  to 
be  a  savant),  but  to  learn.  They  acquired  accordingly 
much  and  quickly.  I  saw  a  young  man  twenty-one  years 
old  thus  labouring  by  himself  and  for  himself,  who  knew 
Sanscrit,  Persian,  and  a  dozen  other  tongues ;  who  was 
conversant  with  Hegel,  Spencer,  Schopenhauer,  Mill,  and 
Carlyle,  and  with  current  French  and  German  produc- 
tions relating  to  law,  philosophy,  linguistic  study,  and 
exegesis.  His  erudition  and  comprehension  are  those  of 
a  man  of  forty.  He  is  now  going  to  complete  his  educatiou 
by  passing  a  year  each  at  Paris  and  Berlin.  These  are 
noble  germs ;  I  trust  there  are  many  of  them,  and  that  they 
are  increasing.  But  such  achievements,  and  a  delight  in 
the  conflict  of  ideas,  are  not  all ;  it  is  necessary  to  produce, 
to  carve  out  one's  own  way  ;  for  without  invention  there  ia 
no  true  culture.  Several  of  my  friends  are  somewhat 
concerned  on  this  point;  they  regard  this  ebullition  as 
superficial,  viewing  this  new  outburst  of  intellectual 


POLITICS,  SCIENCE,  AND  RELIGION.  11 

activity  as  a  kind  of  operatic  display,  a  brilliant  fairy 
spectacle  to  which  speculative  brains  are  abandoning 
themselves.  'A  few  erudites,'  they  say,  'import  and 
accumulate  mountains  of  foreign  material :  a  curious 
crowd  gathers  around  their  plans,  studying  fac-similes 
and  imitations  of  foreign  models?  Who  is  to  conceive 
and  execute  the  national  monument  f 


CHAPTER  VJ. 

INTELLECT  GAL  AND  OTHEK  TRAITS — SAN  CARLO   AND  tAH 
CABLING. 

Streets,  Promenades,  and  Theatres. — Most  of  the  women 
are  ordinary,  but  there  are  a  large  number  of  handsome, 
genteel,  well-dressed  young  men.  A  friend  who  has 
travelled  over  Italy  states  that  one  encounters  people  in 
quite  small  towns  who  have  dined  on  a  bit  of  bread  and 
cheese,  but  who  wear  new  gloves,  and  seem  apparently  to 
have  just  left  Dusautoy's  establishment.  It  is  a  universal 
rule  that  the  more  a  man  thinks  of  the  women  the  better 
lie  dresses. 

Many  among  them  have  heads  like  those  of  Correggio, 
with  a  tranquilly  voluptuous  air,  and  a  smile  constantly 
blissful  and  serene.  It  is  very  pleasing,  and  it  enables 
you  to  comprehend  their  amatory  characteristics.  Whsii 
they  address  a  woman  this  smile  becomes  more  cap- 
tivating and  tenderer ;  there  is  no  French  piquancy  or 
petulance  in  it ;  they  seem  to  be  enraptured,  to  relish 
with  the  keenest  zest  every  word  that  drops  from  her 
mouth,  one  by  one,  like  so  many  drops  of  honey.  The 
light  popular  songs,  the  national  music,  and  the  operas  of 
Cimerosa  express  the  same  sentiment. 

Amongst  the  lower  classes  every  young  girl  of  fifteen 
has  a  lover ;  every  young  man  of  seventeen  has  one  like- 
wise, the  passion  with  both  being  strong  and  enduring 
Both  intend  marriage,  and  wait  as  long  as  is  requisite, 


INTELLECTUAL  AND   OTHER  TRAITS.  SI 

which  is  until  the  young  swain  can  purchase  the  principal 
article  of  furniture,  an  immense  square  bed. 

Observe  this,  however,  that  he  does  not  in  the  interval 
lead  the  life  of  a  Trarrist.  No  people  are  more  given  to 
pleasure,  none  are  morn  precocious ;  at  thirteen  years  of 
age  a  child  is  a  man. 

A  young  girl  stands  u  her  window,  while  a  young  man 
passes  and  repasses,  and  stands  in  the  porte-cochere,  both 
making  signs  to  each  other.  In  the  street  I  live  in  is  a 
certain  window,  half  open ;  the  lover  in  a  vehicle  ascends 
and  descends  the  street  thirty  or  forty  times  every  after- 
noon, and  then  goes  off  to  promenade  on  the  Villa  Reale, 
You  may  ask  a  young  girl  without  impropriety  if  she  has 
a  lover.  '  Certainly  I  have,  otherwise  I  should  be  very 
ugly  or  very  disagreeable.'  '  But  do  you  love  him  ? ' 
'  Yes :  do  you  suppose  I  am  heartless  ?  ' 

Yesterday  I  witnessed  an  exact  representation  of  these 
characteristics  in  the  popular  little  theatre  of  San  Carlino. 
The  two  female  lovers  were  genuine  Neapolitan  grisettes, 
one  piquant,  and  the  other  grassotta ;  both  being  vulgar, 
tempting,  and  extremely  voluble  and  deafening  in  in- 
sults when  their  tongues  were  loosened.  Love,  amidst 
these  popular  weaknesses,  flourishes  like  a  rose  rooted 
in  cracked  and  broken  pottery.  A  sweeter  smile  than 
that  of  Annarella  when  she  finally  accepts  Andrea  could 
not  be  imagined.  Her  beautiful  teeth,  her  parted  lips, 
her  large  eyes  beaming  with  tender  compliance  and 
expanding  with  felicity,  her  entire  being  overflows  with 
delight.  There  is  no  finesse  or  prudery  as  in  France — 
nothing  lackadaisical.  He  kisses  her  hand,  yet  he  is  a 
man  of  the  people,  almost  of  the  lower  class ;  but  he  has 
loved  her  for  three  years.  Another  pretty  action  follows, 
both  tender  and  familiar :  he  pla  \es  her  hand  on  his  head 
to  take  from  it  a  lock  of  his  hair. 

It  is  impossible  for  these  people  to  think  of  anything 


83  NAPLES. 

else :  love  is  the  dominant  idea ;  it  is  inspired  both  by 
the  climate  and  the  landscape.  This  is  easily  understood 
and,  better  still,  felt  as  soon  as  one  has  passed  an  hour  on 
the  sea.  From  the  bark,  on  the  way  to  Pausilippo, 
villas  and  palaces  are  visible,  extending  down  into  the 
glowing  waves ;  some  have  foundations  under  which  the 
waters  flow.  Terraced  gardens  descend  to  the  brink 
filled  with  the  olive,  the  orange,  the  Indian  fig,  and  fes- 
toons of  clinging  vines  that  conceal  the  nudity  of  the 
rocks.  On  the  heights  appear  the  round  tops  of  the 
Italian  pine,  relieving  black  against  the  bright  clear  sky. 
Naples  recedes,  and  as  it  becomes  more  remote  seems  to  be 
a  vast  white  hive.  Vesuvius  expands  and  displays  its 
amplitude.  Blue  covers  all ;  the  sea,  the  sky,  and  the 
earth  are  simply  azure ;  and  the  delicate  gradations  of  its 
tints  only  render  this  concert  of  colour  the  more  delect- 
able. The  mountains  resemble  in  hue  the  throat  of  a 
turtle-dove,  the  sea  is  of  the  colour  of  a  silken  robe,  and 
the  firmament  a  pale  velvety  texture  sparkling  with 
luminousness.  Alone,  afar  off,  a  group  of  white  sails 
appears  like  a  bevy  of  sea-gulls.  A  light  breeze  kisses 
the  cheeks,  and  the  bark  dances.  You  banish  thought ; 
you  are  only  sensible  of  the  balmy  caressing  atmosphere, 
and  of  the  gentle  swelling  of  the  waves. 

These  amours  are  not  always  of  a  placid  type.  Day 
before  yesterday  I  saw  a  girl  descend  from  a  vehicle  with 
three  large  gashes  on  her  cheeks,  bestowed  upon  her  by 
her  lover,  in  order  to  prevent  her  from  pleasing  a  rival. 
It  often  happens  that  a  girl  thus  scarred  espouses  the 
offender  and  exonerates  him  before  the  magistrate. 
'  It's  ray  fault ;  he  was  jealous ;  I  provoked  him.'  It 
eeems  as  if  their  nerves  were  stimulated  by  the  irregulari- 
ties of  the  climate,  and  that  they  improvise  blows  aa 
well  as  other  matters.  There  are  a  good  many  unpTeme* 


INTELLECTUAL  AND   OTHER  TRAITS.  83 

ditated  murders  of  this  class :  the  punishment  is  twenty 
years  in  prison. 

In  all  things  with  these  people  the  first  impression  is 
too  violent ;  scarcely  is  the  trigger  touched  when  the 
explosion  takes  place;  the  effect  is  terrible,  but  more 
frequently  grotesque.  Hawkers  with  their  merchandise 
resemble  lunatics.  This  morning,  during  my  breakfast, 
a  vendor  of  knickknacks  expended  more  breath  and  gos- 
ture  in  half  an  hour  than  any  two  comic  actors  in  two  or 
three  months.  He  shoved  his  bric-a-brac  into  the  hands 
of  the  crowd,  blew  shell  trumpets,  balanced  toy  watches 
in  his  hands  to  test  their  weight,  and  pretended  to  listen  to 
their  seeming  tick-tick,  assuming  a  lachrymose  whining 
tone  of  voice  in  order  to  get  an  extra  grano ;  he  put  on 
airs  of  admiration  before  dolls;  all  of  which  puffing  and 
blowing  I  am  satisfied  was  as  much  a  pleasure  to  him  as 
of  any  advantage  to  his  traffic ;  it  is  one  of  the  ways  for 
discharging  surplus  steam.  Two  cabmen  get  into  a 
quarrel  and  seem  ready  to  burst ;  a  minute  after,  and  all 
is  forgotten.  The  love  of  tinselry  proceeds  from  the 
same  source.  Mules  are  decked  with  tufts  of  colour, 
vehicles  with  complicated  brass  ornaments,  and  hearses 
with  borders  of  gilt ;  women  cannot  dispense  with  gold 
chains,  and  poor  girls  place  over  their  rags  plaid  shawls 
and  scarlet  handkerchiefs  figured  with  flowers.  The 
imagination  thus  sparkles  and  explodes  without. 

Accordingly  things  are  quickly  and  easily  done,  and 
without  timidity  or  awkwardness.  My  Castellamare 
coachman  was  an  orator ;  the  only  difficulty  I  had  was 
to  make  him  keep  quiet.  An  ordinary  woman  converses 
with  you,  gives  you  advice,  and  corrects  your  pronuncia- 
tion ;  she  feels  herself  on  familiar  terms  with  you,  and 
not  at  all  inferior.  Sometimes  demonstrations  of  respect 
are  made,  but  they  are  on  the  surface :  such  a  thing  is 
incompatible  with  such  a  character.  Man  is  too  much  at 
•a 


84  NAPLES. 

his  ease>  too  active,  to  feel  embarrassed  or  constrained 
before  anybody  or  anything. 

The  people  have  many  good  qualities.  Two  stranger? 
residing  here,  one  of  whom  is  the  superintendent  of  a 
factory,  praises  them  after  having  employed  them  for  ten 
years.  They  are  passionately  fond  of  their  children  O'l 
the  father's  return  from  fishing,  the  mother  brings  them 
to  him,  and  he  lifts  them  in  his  arms,  kisses  and  caresscl 
them,  and  makes  all  sorts  of  faces  at  them  They  lovo 
all  children,  and  not  merely  their  own  offspring ;  they 
are  affected  by  their  beauty  and  innocence  and  pretty 
ways ;  it  is  poetry,  and  they  feel  it.  When  Monsieur 

B is  absent,  the  workmen  of  the  establishment 

caress  and  sympathise  Avith  his  children,  and  sometimes 
with  tears  in  their  eyes. 

Most  households  have  a  troop  of  children  in  them,  as 
many  as  six  or  eight,  and  even  a  dozen.  They  do  not 
avoid  having  children ;  on  the  contrary  they  are  glad  to 
have  them :  those  who  die  young  become  cherubs  in  para- 
dise. As  for  the  others,  their  parents  rely  wholly  on  an 
animal  guarantee.  A  donkey -driver  of  Salerno  possessing 
twelve,  and  for  whom  some  one  expressed  sympathy, 
replied,  '  I  trust  I  shall  have  lour  more.'  An  orango 
costs  a  centime,  a  shirt  is  a  dress,  and  three-fourths  of  the 
year  one  can  sleep  in  the  open  air.  They  marry  quite 
young.  A  man  at  twenty,  even  in  the  bourgeois  class, 
takes  a  wife.  There  are  a  great  many  love-marriages : 
girls  without  a  penny  find  husbands.  People  of  social 
position  marry  work-girls:  an  Italian  grisette  finds  no 
difficulty  in  appearing  as  a  lady. 

The  lower  classes  are  very  temperate ;  a  little  bread 
and  an  onion  suffices  for  their  dinner.  A  certain  old 
labourer  who  had  made  a  gentleman  of  his  son  lives  on 
a  grano  of  bread  per  diem  (four  centimes).  They  work 
all  day,  sometimes  until  midnight,  excepting  the  -siesta 


BAN  CAHLC   AND  SAN  CABLING.  Si 

between  noon  and  three  o'clock.  Shoemakers  are  seen 
plying  their  awls  from  morning  to  night  in  the  open  air. 
The  tinsmiths,  who  occupy  entire  streets  back  of  the  port, 

never  stop  their  hammering.  Mr.  B required  fifty 

women  to  clean  cotton ;  two  hundred  and  fifty  rushed  in 
over  the  porter's  body  at  the  door.  They  do  less  work, 
however,  than  French  workmen  or  northern  Italians,  an 
overseer  being  necessary  to  keep  them  at  it. 

These  people  are  brilliant,  capricious,  enthusiastic,  un- 
balanced, natural.  Under  ordinary  conditions  they  are 
amiable  and  even  gentle ;  but  when  in  peril  or  aroused  in 
times  of  revolution  and  fanatical  excitement,  they  go  to 
the  extreme  of  folly  and  frenzy. 

San  Carlo,  II  Trovatore. — There  are  six  rows  of  boxes 
in  this  theatre ;  the  house  is  magnificent ;  the  light  is  not 
strong,  not  dazzling.  The  science  of  humouring  the  eye, 
and  indeed  all  the  senses,  is  well  understood  here ;  they 
do  not  heap  the  audience  together  as  at  the  f  Grand 
Opera,'  or  at  the  '  Italiens '  in  Paris.  Its  corridors  are 
wide,  and  a  vacant  space  extends  around  the  parterre, 
allowing  one  to  circulate  about  freely;  the  seats  are 
elevated  several  feet  so  as  to  permit  the  passage  of  a 
turrent  of  fresh  air.  In  other  respects  the  house  is  like 

provincial  theatre,  old-fashioned,  and  only  tolerably 
clean ;  there  is  no  display  of  dress,  although  Titiens  is  the 
prima-donna,  and  the  prices  are  doubled.  The  scenery, 
except  one  scene,  is  contemptible ;  the  ballet  scenes  are 
ridiculous ;  hell,  for  instance,  with  its  yellow  rocks,  appears 
as  if  it  were  furnished  with  the  Utrecht-velvet  stock  of  an 
hotel  garni.  The  tenor  is  a  spasmodic  buffoon,  a  sort  of 
ugly  Farnese  Hercules,  wearing  one  of  those  old  chin- 
clasping  casques  which  is  only  met  with  amongst  classic 
rubbish.  The  basso  and  '  Acuzena'  are  of  equal  merit.  The 
costumes  are  antiquated;  they  regard  the  middle  ages  a?  we 
regarded  them  under  the  empire — look  at  the  troubadours 


86  NAPLES. 

on  the  clocks  in  our  provincial  inns.  Titiens  alone  it 
becomingly  dressed.  All  sang  false,  and  the  altitude  of 
the  audience  was  amusing;  the  slightest  dubious  note 
called  forth  a  torrent  of  whistles,  cat-calls,  and  cock-crow- 
ing, and  a  moment  after,  if  the  rest  of  the  air  proved  satis- 
factory, there  followed  the  most  deafening  applause.  Some 
of  the  men  in  the  parquette  hummed  the  airs  aloud,  and 
even  the  orchestra  score,  and  very  accurately.  The 
people  outside  the  door  could  also  do  this.  The  female 
wandering  minstrels  of  the  street  have  shrill  voices,  but 
they  sing  true.  The  Neapolitans  are  genuine  musicians 
comprehending  all  the  shades,  successes,  and  faults  of 
music,  as  we  in  Paris  comprehend  the  subtleties  of  wit 
and  humour. 

The  principal  danseuse  is  '  Signora '  Legrain,  a  French 
lady  ;  while  the  ballet  is  much  worse  than  in  Paris,  consist- 
ing of  the  same  contortions,  the  same  agility,  and  the  same 
Bpider-like  capering.  All  that  sustains  the  ballet  with 
us  is  here  wanting,  there  being  neither  taste,  elegance, 
nor  freshness ;  we,  at  least,  have  scenery  equal  to  pictures, 
costumes  that  delight  a  poetic  eye,  and  armour  that 
would  fix  the  attention  of  an  antiquary.  Certainly,  our 
centralisation,  which  is  so  detrimental  to  us,  provides  us 
with  all  superior  things  like  opera,  literature,  conversation, 
and  the  cuisine. 

San  Carlino. — This  evening  the  '  Menechmes '  is  per- 
formed, arranged  a  la  Napolitaine.  French  pieces,  trans- 
lated, abound  throughout  Italy,  but  in  this  case  the 
reproduction  is  pure  invention ;  its  characters,  manners, 
dialogue,  and  language  are  peculiar  to  Naples,  and  are  of 
a  popular  order. 

This  theatre  is  emphatically  so,  it  is  a  serf,  of  cave 
packed  with  grisettes,  mechanics,  and  shopkeepers  in 
old  velvet  vests  and  caps ;  the  heat  is  intense,  the  odour 
intolerable,  and  the  fleas  are  constantly  crawling  upon 


SAN  CARLO  AND   SAN  CARL1NO.  87 

one*s  legs.  But  the  actors  play  well ;  they  are  easy,  and 
show  great  familiarity  with  the  boards,  which  is  not  sur- 
prising, considering  that  the  same  piece  is  played  twice  a 
day,  once  in  the  morning,  and  again  in  the  evening. 

Some  of  the  scenes  are  admirably  given,  for  instance, 
that  of  a  lover  discarded  by  his  mistress :  here  is  no 
display  of  amour-propre,  but  a  genuine, despairing  outburst 
of  mingled  indignation  and  passionate  entreaty.  A 
Frenchman  In  a  similar  position  would  show  pique. 
Almost  all  are  admirable  mimics,  especially  the  innkeeper 
and  his  wife.  Their  features  play  incessantly;  twenty 
expressions  go  and  come  in  a  minute,  and  each  so  true 
and  complete,  that,  with  a  little  plaster,  you  might  take 
a  model  of  it. 

Its  wit  is  gross — decidedly  Rabelaisian.  A  father 
states  that  his  wife  has  brought  him  twins  :  '  Very  good 
news,'  replied  Polichinelle ; ( your  neighbour's  sow  has  just 
littered  seven.'  Drollery  and  fantastic  passages  abound 
in  this  comedy ;  others  that  I  have  read  remind  one  of 
the  imaginative  extravagance  of  the  grand  buffooneries  of 
Aristophanes.  Polichinelle  is  a  scamp — a  flatterer,  a 
gourmand,  lachrymose,  vicious,  and  witty ;  he  is  a  droll 
fellow,  not  bad  at  heart,  but  living  on  his  neighbours,  and 
amusing  himself  in  turning  his  talents  to  good  account. 
A  philosophic  moralist  I  met  here  states  that  this  character 
is  a  typical  portrait  of  the  Neapolitan  such  as  the  Bour- 
bons made  him ;  he  is  a  spoiled  Greek,*  singularly  in- 
telligent, adroit,  and  malicious,  but  always  on  the  side  of 
evil,  demoralised  by  a  government  that  robbed  him,  by 
judges  that  allowed  parties  to  suborn  witnesses,  by  open 
corruption  in  high  places,  and  by  the  conviction,  constantly 
enforced,  that  honesty  is  not  the  best  policy,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  is  prejudicial.  If  the  people  now  become  honest 

*  Graeculu*. 


08  NAPLES. 

it  will  be  through  interest  rather  than  through  a  quick- 
ened  conscience.  That  which  still  masters  them  is 
obsequiousness,  suppleness,  the  art  of  avoiding  and 
diverting  obstacles,  an  aversion  to  the  use  of  force,  a 
talent  for  talking  and  jesting,  and  a  disposition  to  be 
parasite,  pander,  and  servant.  By  the  side  of  these,  as 
formerly  with  the  Greeks,  the  Italians  of  the  North  are 
blockheads.  "When  the  Piedmontese  arrived  and  sought 
to  regulate  administrative  matters,  they  were  very  eager 
and  smiling,  and  duped  them  without  difficulty.  Again, 
like  the  Greeks,  they  show  remarkable  aptitude  for 
philosophy,  which  is  apparent  even  in  the  common  schools 
among  the  young  peasants.  In  short,  like  the  Greeks, 
they  divine  everything,  and  instruct  themselves  without 
masters.  My  guide  at  Pompeii  acquired  English  and 
French  in  two  years  without  assistance  from  anyone, 
through  conversations  with  travellers,  asking  and  writing 
down  in  an  old  grey  paper  copy-book  the  words  he  waa 
not  familiar  with.  *  I  tell  you  our  weak  points,'  added 
my  moralising  friend,  *  but  the  foundation  is  good.  There 
is  a  rich  intelligence — only  a  little  too  rich;  with  us  the 
intellect  overtops  all  other  traits.  In  order  to  develop 
them  tell  me  which  government  is  best,  that  of  a  despot 
which  imprisons  the  wise,  or  that  of  a  bourgeoisie  which 
founds  schools?' 


CHATTER  VII. 

CAPITA— LANDSCAPE — MONTE  CASINO 

NAPLES  to  SAN  GERMANO  :  March  2,  1364. — 
As  far  as  Capua  the  country  is  a  garden.  Green  croj* 
as  fresh  as  in  May  cover  the  plain.  Every  fifteen  feet  a 
branchless  elm  sustains  a  tortuous  vine,  the  lateral  shoots 
of  which  extend  to  another  trunk,  and  convert  the  field 
into  one  vast  arbour.  Above  this  brown  trellis  of  vines 
and  the  whitened  branches  of  the  elms,  rise  Italian  pines 
with  their  dark  spreading  cupolas,  as  if  of  a  foreign  and 
superior  race. 

The  Volturno  is  an  ordinary  yellowish  stream,  and 
Capua  a  less  than  ordinary  city.  But  how  luxuriant  the 
country  around  !  Vegetation  rises  to  a  man's  height,  and 
the  atmosphere  is  so  mild  that  we  can  leave  the  windows  of 
the  carriage  continually  open.  You  think  of  the  ancient 
Smnnites  on  seeing  the  rugged  range  of  mountains  rising 
behind  the  city.  What  could  prevent  the  wolves  oi 
these  gorges  and  heights  from  seizing  their  prey  on 
the  plain  ?  Such  a  city  was  a  quarry  to  them.  You 
recall  the  passage  of  Livy  describing  that  striking  scene 
of  southern  earnestness  and  emphasis  when  the  deputies, 
prostrate  suppliants  in  the  vestibule  of  the  curia,  with 
tears  in  their  eyes,  delivered  over  to  the  Romans  their 
persons  and  property,  *  the  city  of  Capua,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Campagna,  their  fields,  the  temples  of  their  gods, 
and  all  things  human  and  divine.'  What  zeal  for  the 


90  NAPLES. 

State,  what  political  solicitude  on  the  part  of  the  humblest 
artisan,  what  an  inevitable  confusion  of  public  and  private 
interests,  when  from  the  city  walls  they  beheld  maraud- 
ing bands  of  shepherds  approach  similar  to  our  modern 
brigands,  and  when  all  assembled  weekly  in  the  great 
temple  to  deliberate  on  the  best  means  of  avoiding  pillage, 
murder,  and  slavery !  Never  can  we  comprehend  the 
passion  of  the  ancient  for  his  city ! 

These  mountains  are  almost  bare ;  they  are  rugged  and 
strewn  with  rocks,  seeming  to  be  the  ruins  of  a  con- 
vulsion, as  if  their  sides  and  summits  had  been  shattered 
by  an  earthquake,  and  their  riven  masses  scattered 
around  in  fragments.  Precipitous  peaks  rise  into  the 
air  like  knife- blades.  There  are  no  trees,  only  a  few 
tenacious  cowering  bushes,  and  some  mosses,  and  fre- 
quently nothing.  One  mountain  spreads  out  its  ragged 
triangle  like  a  mass  of  scoria ;  others  rise  up  seemingly 
rent  asunder  in  a  furious  conflagration,  erect,  like  mum- 
mies of  ashes  surrounded  by  their  wan  companions.  The 
highest  on  the  horizon  are  capped  with  snow.  From 
these  issued  the  Samnites,  the  adventurers  of  the  ver 
sacrum,  wearing  goat-skins  and  cords  twisted  about  their 
feet,  their  beards  untrimmed,  and  with  fixed  black  eyes, 
like  the  herdsmen  now  in  sight.  A  residence  in  California 
or  New  Zealand  is  necessary,  if  one  would  appreciate  at 
the  present  day  the  picture  of  an  antique  city. 

The  sky  is  as  fine  as  in  June,  equally  as  warm  and 
glowing.  The  mountains  on  either  side  are  of  a  simple 
grave  blue,*  extending  one  behind  the  other  like  the  stepi 
oi  an  amphitheatre  purposely  arranged  to  please  the  eye. 
A  delicate  haze,  a  glowing  transparent  veil  envelopes 
their  grand  forms,  and  above  them  floats  story  upon 
itory  of  snowy  clouds. 

During  the  night  it  rained  violently,  and  labourers  of 

*  Carulnu.s. 


LANDSCAPE.  9! 

every  description  are  now  engaged  mending  the  roads 
washed  by  the  torrents.  For  the  first  time  I  meet  with 
some  really  beautiful  women.  They  are  quite  ragged, 
and  you  would  not  touch  them  even  with  gloves  on,  but  a 
few  paces  off  they  resemble  statues.  Being  compelled  to 
carry  water,  mortar,  and  other  burdens  on  their  heads,  they 
display  the  erect  attitude  and  dignified  bearing  of  cane- 
phorae.  A  piece  of  thick  white  linen  covers  the  head, 
which,  falling  on  the  sides,  protects  it  from  the  sun's  rays. 
On  this  white  ground  the  warm  complexion  and  the 
black  eyes  produce  an  admirable  effect.  Several  possess 
regular  features ;  one,  slightly  pale,  has  a  face  as  elegant 
as  one  of  Da  Vinci's.  The  chemise  folds  carelessly  about 
her  neck  above  the  corsets  and  seems  expressly  arranged 
to  be  painted,  while  the  skirt  falls  in  natural  folds,  because 
the  figure  stands  upright. 

As  evening  approaches,  the  mountains  to  the  eastward 
became  more  beautiful.  They  are  not  too  near  nor  too 
grand,  not  overwhelming  like  the  Pyrenees,  or  melan- 
choly like  the  Cevennes.  Between  them  extends  a  broad 
fertile  Campagna ;  they  are  wholly  decorative,  and  serve  as 
a  middle  distance  to  the  picture.  They  are  equally  per- 
fect in  nobleness  and  in  simplicity.  Tints  of  violet,  blue, 
and  mauve  insensibly  steal  over  them.  Several  have  the 
appearance  of  watered-silk  robes  with  their  broken  folds ; 
their  steep  crags  and  naked  promontories  at  this  distance 
are  only  lustrous  plaits.  Towns  and  villages  on  the 
heights  form  spots  of  white,  and  the  azure  of  the  sky  is  so 
pure  and  powerful,  and  yet  so  soft,  that  I  do  not  remember 
tc  have  seen  a  more  beautiful  colour. 

Monte  Casino. — I  am  acquainted  with  one  of  the  supe- 
riors }f  Monte  Casino,  and  I  stopped  there  on  passing. 
You  are  familiar  with  the  name  of  the  principal  and  most 
ancient  of  the  Benedictine  Abbeys.  It  belongs  to  the 
lixth  century,  and  is  erected  on  the  site  of  a  temple  of 


93  NAPLES. 

Apollo ;  earthquakes  have  repeatedly  destroyed  it,  the 
edifice  now  standing  being  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
From  this  centre  monastic  life  spread  over  barbarous 
Europe  in  the  darkest  period  of  the  middle  ages.  What- 
ever remained  of  ancient  civilisation  reposed  thus  in  re- 
mote corners,  within  a  monastic  shell,  like  the  chrysalis 
in  its  covering.  Here  monks  copied  manuscripts  to  the 
dron.ng  hum  of  litanies,  while  northern  savages  traversed 
the  valleys,  gazing  on  the  rocky  summits  and  stony  walls 
protecting  the  last  of  these  asylums.  They  forced  its 
gates  many  times,  but  later,  when  converted,  their  heads 
bowed  in  superstitious  terror  before  its  venerated  relics. 
A  king  whose  history  is  painted  on  one  of  the  walls,  abdi- 
cated his  crown  here  in  order  to  assume  the  garb  of  a 
monk. 

The  ascent  to  the  convent  begins  at  St.  Germano. 
This  is  a  miserable  little  town,  situated  on  a  mountain- side, 
its  steep  flinty  streets  being  filled  with  ragged  children 
and  stray  hogs.  The  house-doors  stand  open :  a  dark 
porch  sharply  intersects  the  crude  white  wall,  while  the 
furniture  and  household  implements  within,  dimly  discer- 
nible though  the  teeming  shadows,  flicker  with  passing 
reflections.  On  the  right,  on  the  top  of  a  singular  mass  of 
blackened  stones,  the  dislocated  mountain  bears  the  rem- 
nant of  a  feudal  castle.  On  the  left,  a  zigzag  road  winds 
for  an  hour  and  a  half  up  to  the  summit.  Bushes  of 
mastic  and  tufts  of  grass  glimmer  in  the  crevices  of  the 
rocks,  and  lizards  dart  about  amongst  the  stones  at  every 
step.  Higher  up  appear  oaks,  box,  broom,  and  euphor- 
bia, whatever  of  winter  vegetation  that  is  able  to  subsist 
amongst  crumbling  crags  and  on  stony  sterile  breasts. 

Looking  off  into  space  you  see  an  army  ot  mountains, 
nothing  but  mountains,  the  sole  inhabitants,  and  range 
after  range  absorbing  the  entire  landscape.  One  of  them, 
with  its  jagged  brow  jutting  forth  like  a  promontory,  seems 


MONTE  CASINO.  95 

to  be  a  gigantic  saurian  stretching  his  long  skeleton  before 
the  entrance  of  a  valley.  Such  a  spectacle  leaves  St. 
Peter's,  the  Colosseum,  and  all  other  human  monuments 
far  in  the  background.  Each  has  its  own  physiognomy, 
like  an  animated  countenance,  but  indescribable,  because 
no  living  form  corresponds  to  a  mineral  form  ;  each  has 
its  own  colour,  one  being  grey  and  calcined,  like  a 
cathedral  devastated  by  fire,  another  brown,  and  fur- 
rowed with  the  white  lines  of  torrents,  the  more  distant 
of  a  serene  blue,  and  the  most  remote  merged  into  glow- 
ing luminous  atmosphere  and  magnificently  varied  with 
shadows  and  masses  of  cloud.  Diverse  as  they  are, 
whether  bold  or  retiring,  majestic  or  mournful,  they  are 
ennobled  by  the  soft  luminous  atmosphere  and  by  the 
grand  celestial  canopy  overhead,  of  which  their  vastness 
renders  them  worthy.  No  caryatides  are  equal  to  these 
colossi. 

On  the  summit,  on  an  esplanade,  stands  the  great  square 
convent  with  its  stories  of  terraces  and  rocky  gardens 
surrounded  by  bald  peaks,  constituting  a  choir  of  which 
it  forms  the  centre.  At  the  end  of  a  long  ascending  porch 
you  perceive  a  court  enclosed  within  rows  of  columns. 
From  this  court  broad  steps  lead  to  a  still  higher  court, 
also  furnished  with  its  porticoes ;  here,  displayed  upon  the 
walls,  is  a  silent  assembly  of  statues  of  abbes,  princes, 
and  benefactors.  The  church  rises  in  the  background. 
From  its  portal  the  eye  ranges  over  columns  and  arches 
sharply  defined  on  the  clear  azure,  and  beyond,  in  the 
luminous  coruscations  of  sunset,  over  the  ample  architec- 
ture of  the  mountains.  Stone  and  sky  is  all — it  almost 
prompts  one  to  turn  monk. 

My  apartment  is  situated  at  the  end  of  one  of  those 
enormous  corridors  in  which  you  so  easily  get  lost.  Its 
two  windows  open  each  on  a  distinct  mountain  horizon. 
It  is  almost  without  furniture  :  in  the  middle  of  the  flooi 


94  NAPLES. 

stands  a  brasero  with  coals  smouldering  beneath  whitt 
ashes,  and  serving  as  a  fireplace.  On  the  wall  hang 
several  engravings  of  the  works  of  Luca  Signorelli,  repre- 
senting superb  naked  figures  posed  like  wrestlers,  in  the 
style  of  Michael  Angelo.  An  adjoining  chamber  contains 
a  number  of  black  old  pictures,  suspended  on  the  colon- 
nade, of  which  Tobit  and  the  Angel  forms  the  subject. 
The  most  insignificant  object  here  bears  the  stamp  of 
former  grandeur. 

Roman  savants  often  resort  here  to  pass  three  or  four 
months  in  the  heat  of  summer,  and  to  work  comfortably  in  a 
silent  and  temperate  atmosphere.  The  library  contains 
forty  thousand  volumes,  and  a  quantity  of  diplomas.  Its 
hospitality  is  complete;  there  is  no  charity-box — you 
can  scarcely  give  anything  to  a  servant.  The  order  has 
preserved  ancient  traditions,  its  love  of  knowledge,  and 
its  liberal  spirit.  The  monks  are  not  confined  to  their 
cloisters  and  divorced  troni  all  society,  but  are  at  liberty 
to  leave  them  and  travel.  One  of  them,  Father  Tosti,  is 
a  historian,  a  thinker,  a  considerate  reformer,  but  imbued 
with  the  modern  spirit,  and  persuaded  that  henceforth  the 
Church  must  be  conciliated  with  science.  They  study  and 
teach  as  formerly.  Out  of  three  hundred  occupants  of 
the  monastery  twenty  are  monks,  and  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  are  pupils,  all  pursuing  their  studies,  from  the 
rudiments  up  to  theology.  In  the  evening  we  could  hear 
beneath  us  in  a  ravine  filled  with  broom  and  lentisk,  the 
children  of  the  seminary  shouting  and  running  about,  their 
black  robes  and  broad-brimmed  hats  being  now  and  then 
visible  amidst  the  green  of  the  trees. 

"VVre  dined  by  ourselves  in  the  immense  refectory,  lighted 
by  a  brass  lamp  without  a  glass,  similar  to  those  found  at 
Pompeii.  Its  feeble  taper  cast  nickering  gleams  on  the 
pavement  and  on  the  great  stone  vault  above,  the  reflec- 
tions being  drowned  in  the  vague  overwhelming  obscurity, 


MOXTE  CASINO  M 

An  enormous  fresco  on  the  right,  the  '  Multiplication  of 
the  Loaves  and  Fishes,'  by  Bassan,  an  entire  surface  of 
the  wall  covered  with  crowds  of  figures,  hovered  there  like 
an  apparition  of  phantoms  of  old ;  and  when  the  servant 
entered  with  our  meal,  his  black  solitary  form  advancing 
in  the  yellow  penumbra,  seemed  likewise  to  be  a  phan- 
tom. 

The  morning  light  entering  through  my  curtainlesa 
window  awoke  me.  I  doubt  if  many  sights  in  the  world 
equal  in  beauty  that  of  such  an  hour  in  such  a  place. 
The  first  impression  is  one  of  astonishment  at  finding  the 
mountains  of  the  previous  evening  still  in  the  same  posi- 
tion. They  appear  more  sombre  than  they  did  yesterday; 
the  sun  has  not  yet  touched  their  tops  and  they  remain  cold 
«md  grave ;  but  in  the  grand  arena  below,  expanding  from 
the  base  of  the  convent,  and  in  the  neighbouring  valleys, 
myriads  of  clouds  ascend  and  tranquilly  diffuse  themselves, 
many  as  white  as  swans,  and  others  transparent  and 
melting,  some  clinging  to  the  rocks  like  gauze,  and  others 
suspended  and  floating  like  mist  above  a  watercourse. 
The  sun  rises,  and  his  oblique  rays  suddenly  people  these 
depths.  Illuminated  clouds  form  groups  of  aerial  spirits, 
delicate,  and  of  exquisite  grace,  the  most  remote  glowing 
and  diaphanous  like  a  bridal  veil:  all  this  dazzling  bright- 
ness, these  moving  splendours,  forming  an  angelic  choir 
within  the  dark  walls  of  the  amphitheatres:  the  plain  has 
disappeared,  and  only  mountains  and  clouds  are  perceptible 
— sombre,  motionless,  venerable  monsters,  with  young 
lithe  vapoury  gods  flying  and  capriciously  mingling  to- 
gether ind  appropriating  to  themselves  alone  the  sun's 
caresses. 

The  church  is  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  is  painted 
by  Luca  Giordano  and  the  Chevalier  d'Arpino.  Like  the 
Chartreuse  of  Naples,  it  is  lined  with  precious  stones  and 
mosaics;  the  pavement  seems  to  be  a  rich  carpet,  and 


96  NAPLES. 

the  walls  fine  paper-hangings.  The  ancient  gravity  and 
energy  of  the  Renaissance  had  disappeared,  the  sentiment 
of  the  court  and  the  salon  already  began  to  prevail.  The 
architecture  is  thus  the  work  of  a  sensual  paganism, 
showing  the  dilettanteism  of  the  decorator ;  all  the  re- 
sources of  art,  such  as  cupolas,  arcades,  spiral,  Corinthian, 
and  other  columns,  carved  figures,  gildings,  &c.,  are  hero 
accumulated.  The  stalls  of  the  choir  are  laboured  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  being  covered  with  diminutive 
figures  and  foliage.  Paintings  adorn  the  cupola  ceiling, 
extend  through  the  nave,  overflow  into  the  chapel,  take 
possession  of  every  corner,  and  display  themselves  in  enor- 
mous compositions  over  the  portal  and  arches.  Colour  is  as 
flattering  to  the  eye  as  a  ball-dress.  A  charming  *  Truth,' 
by  Luca  Giordano,  has  scarcely  any  drapery  but  her  blonde 
hair,  and  another  figure, '  Benevolence,'  is,  they  say,  a 
portrait  of  his  wife.  The  other  Virtues,  so  graceful,  are 
the  gay  amorous  ladies  of  an  age  buried  in  ignorance  and 
resigned  to  despotism,  one  no  longer  concerned  with  aught 
but  sonnets  and  gallantry.  The  painter  rumples  and 
tosses  about  his  silks  and  stuffs,  hangs  pearls  in  dainty 
ears,  puts  glittering  gold  necklaces  on  fresh  satiny 
shoulders,  and  so  pursues  the  brilliant  and  agreeable  that 
his  fresco  at  the  entrance,  '  The  Consecration  of  the 
Church,'  resembles  a  sumptuous  and  tumultuous  scene  at 
the  opera. 

The  altar,  supported  by  two  gigantic  cherubs,  is  said  to 
be  by  Michael  Angelo.  A  massive  gold  crucifix  is  by 
Cellini.  The  organ  has  the  most  complicated  and  most 
brilliant  of  registers ;  two  of  the  monks  are  Germans,  and 
they  are  studying  in  the  archives  the  buried  treasures  of 
ancient  music.  You  have  everything  here,  not  only  the 
arts  and  the  sciences,  but  the  grand  spectacles  of  nature. 
This  is  what  the  old  feudal  and  religious  society  provided 
for  its  pensive,  solitary  spirits ;  for  minds  which,  repelled 


MONTE  CASINO.  97 

by  the  bitterness  of  life,  reverted  to  speculation  and  self- 
culture.  The  race  still  subsists ;  only  they  no  longer 
possess  an  asylum ;  they  live  in  Paris  and  in  Berlin  in 
garrets.  I  know  of  many  that  are  dead,  of  others  saddened 
and  chilled ;  others,  again,  worn  out  and  disgusted.  Will 
science  ever  do  for  its  faithful  servants  what  religion 
has  done  for  hers  ?  Will  there  ever  be  a  laic  Monto 
Casino? 


BOOK  III. 

ROME. 


CHAPTER  I. 

YHZ  GENERAL  ASPECT  OP  ROME — MASS  AT  THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL-— 
THE   STREETS   OP   ROME. 

Rome :  March  10. — You  ask  me  if  one  can  amuse  hint- 
eelf  in  Rome.  Amuse,  as  a  French  term,  has  meaning 
only  at  Paris.  Here,  if  you  are  not  of  the  country,  you 
must  study — there  is  no  other  resource.  I  pass  three  or 
four  hours  a  day  before  pictures  and  statues.  I  write  ray 
impressions  on  the  spot,  and  only  write  when  I  have  an 
impression.  You  must  not,  accordingly,  look  for  full  de- 
scriptions, nor  a  catalogue ;  rather  buy  Murray,  Forster, 
or  Valery — they  furnish  all  the  information  you  require 
on  art  and  archaeology.  They  are  certainly  very  dry, 
but  the  fault  is  not  theirs — are  colour  and  forms  to  be 
made  appreciable  by  lines  of  words  on  paper  ?  The  best 
thing  is  engravings,  especially  old  engravings  like  the 
works  of  Piranesi.  Open  your  portfolios  and  look  at  the 
great  squares  surrounded  by  domes  and  lofty  edifices, 
dusty  and  crossed  with  ruts,  with  Louis  XIV.  carriages 
loaded  with  lacqueys  passing,  whilst  vagabonds  approach 
begging,  or  lie  sleeping  against  a  column.  These  tell  more 
than  all  the  descriptions  in  the  world.  It  is  necessary, 
however,  to  abate  something ;  the  artist  has  chosen  a 


THE  GENERAL  ASPECT   OF  ROME.  9> 

favourable  time,  an  interesting  effect  of  light,  for  no  othel 
reason  than  that  he  was  an  artist ;  besides  an  engraving 
has  not  the  disadvantage  of  a  bad  odour,  and  the  mendicants 
you  see  in  them  inspire  neither  compassion  nor  disgust. 
You  envy  my  sojourn  at  Home.  I  am  glad  I  came, 
because  I  am  learning  many  things  here,  but  for  true 
pleasure,  unqualified  poetic  enjoyment,  I  found  it  more 
readily  when  I  sat  with  you,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  turning  over  the  contents  of  your  old  portfolios. 
As  to  life  here,  it  is  not  at  all  interesting.  I  rent  a 
small  lodging  of  an  agreeable  well-to-do  family,  and  com- 
pletely Roman,  who  reserve  what  is  cleanly  for  their 
tenants,  and  the  opposite  for  themselves.  One  of  the  song 
is  a  lawyer,  and  another  an  employe.  The  family  live  by 
letting  the  front  rooms  of  their  house,  confining  them- 
selves to  the  apartments  in  the  rear.  The  stairs  are 
never  swept,  and,  there  being  no  concierge,  the  entrance 
remains  open  day  and  night,  come  who  will.  To  offset 
this  the  door  of  each  apartment  is  massive  and  capable  of 
resisting  any  attack.  There  is  no  light:  lodgers  are 
obliged,  in  the  evening,  to  carry  matches  with  them  in 
their  pockets ;  these  are  indispensable  except  when  there 
is  moonlight.  One  of  our  friends  placed  a  lamp  on  his 
landing-place  at  his  own  expense ;  iu  the  evening  the 
lamp  was  stolen ;  a  second  and  a  third  met  with  the  same 
fate,  and  he  has  returned  to  matches.  In  the  morning 
we  breakfast  at  the  cafe  Greco ;  this  is  a  long,  low, 
smoky  apartment,  not  brilliant  or  attractive,  but  con- 
venient :  it  appears  to  be  like  the  rest  throughout  Italy. 
This  one,  which  is  the  best  in  Home,  would  pass  for  a 
third-rate  cafe  in  Paris.  It  is  true  that  almost  every- 
thing here  is  good  and  cheap ;  the  coffee,  which  is 
excellent,  costs  three  sous  a  cup.  This  done,  I  go  to  a 
museum  or  gallery,  and  almost  always  alone  ;  otherwise 
it  would  be  impossible  to  have  any  impressions  of  my 

92 


100  ROME. 

own,  and  especially  to  adhere  to  them  :  conversation  and 
discussion  act  on  inward  reverie  and  imagery  like  a 
broomstick  on  a  cluster  of  butterflies.  In  wandering 
about  the  streets  I  enter  the  churches,  and  my  guide-book 
informs  me  of  their  architects  and  century ;  this  gives 
them  an  historical  position,  and  involuntarily  I  fall  into 
a  train  of  reflection  on  the  social  condition  out  of  which 
they  sprung.  Returning  home,  I  find  on  my  table  books 
of  the  epoch,  and  especially  memoirs  and  poems ;  I  read 
these  an  hour  or  two,  and  then  finish  my  notes.  Koine 
I  regard  as  only  a  grand  old  curiosity  shop :  what  can 
one  do  here  but  study  art,  history,  and  archeology  ?  II 
I  did  not  thus  occupy  myself  I  am  satisfied  that  the  con- 
fusion and  dirt  of  its  bric-a-brac,  the  cobwebs,  the  musti- 
ness  of  so  many  precious  objects,  formerly  bright  and 
perfect,  but  now  faded,  mutilated,  and  despoiled,  would 
give  me  a  fit  of  the  blues.  When  evening  comes  I  take 
a  cab  and  pay  some  visits.  Being  well  provided  with 
letters  of  introduction,  I  encounter  persons  of  all 
conditions  and  all  shades  of  opinion,  and  I  have  met  with 
a  great  deal  of  kindness  and  civility.  My  landlord  talks 
to  me  about  the  present  tune,  about  religion,  about 
politics.  I  strive  to  gather  a  few  ideas  concerning  the 
Italy  of  to-day,  which  is  the  complement  of  the  Italy 
of  the  past,  and  the  last  of  a  series  of  medals,  all 
commenting  on  and  explaining  each  other;  with  these  I 
pursue  my  usual  course.  After  having  tried  many  ex- 
periments, I  find  only  one  good  tiling  left,  or  at  least  one 
supportable  thing,  which  is  to  attend  to  my  business. 

Arrival  at  Rome. — The  Rome  of  last  evening,  so  dark 
and  shopless,  with  its  few  dim  gaslights  scattered  wide 
apart,  what  a  funereal  spectacle  I  The  Piazza  Barberini, 
where  I  lodge,  is  like  a  catafalque  of  stone  with  a  few 
forgotten  tapers  burning  on  it ;  the  feeble  little  lights  seem 
to  be  swallowed  up  in  a  lugubrious  shroud  of  shadow,  and 


MASS  AT   THE   S1STINE   CHAPEL.  101 

the  indistinct  murmur  of  the  fountain  in  the  silence  ia 
like  the  rustling  of  phantoms.  The  nocturnal  aspect 
of  Rome  cannot  be  described ;  in  the  daytime  *  cela  It 
mart?  *  but  at  night  there  is  all  the  horror  and  the  gran- 
deur of  the  sepulchre. 

Sunday  and  Mass  at  the  Sistine  Chapel. — We  take  our 
place  in  line  at  the  entrance,  the  ladies  without  bonnets, 
in  black  veils,  and  the  gentlemen  in  dress-coats,  which  is 
the  prescribed  uniform  ;  but  you  wear  your  oldest  coat-  - 
some  of  the  men  wear  brown  pantaloons,  and  grey  broad- 
brimmed  hats:  the  assembly  seems  to  be  composed  of 
usher's  officials  and  funeral  undertakers.  People  come 
here  out  of  curiosity  as  they  go  to  the  theatre ;  the 
ecclesiastics  themselves  converse  freely  and  with  anima- 
tion on  indifferent  matters. 

A  conversation  on  rosaries  takes  place  near  me.  '  At 
Paris  they  cost  thirty-six  francs  a  dozen  ;  the  best  here, 
the  cheapest,  can  be  had  behind  the  church  of  Santa 
Maria  sopra  Minerva.'  *  I  will  recollect  that  name  :  how 
do  you  get  to  it  ? ' — '  Do  you  know  that  we  shall  not 
have  the  Pope  to-day  ?  he  is  unwell.' — *  Me  ?  I  lodge  in 
the  Via  del  Babuino,  at  five  francs  a  day,  including 
breakfast ;  the  wine,  however,  is  weak.' — *  Look  at  those 
queer  Swiss,  coloured  and  striped  like  opera  figurants  I ' 
— 'He  who  has  just  come  in  is  Cardinal  Panebianco,  a 
grey  old  monk ;  the  next  vacancy  he  will  be  papabilc? 
— '  I  don't  like  lamb,  and  genuine  gigot  cannot  be  had.1 
*You  will  hear  the  soprano  Mustapha,  an  admirable 
fellow  ! '  •'  Is  he  really  a  Turk  ?  '  <  He  is  neither  Turk 
nor  man.' — *  Monsignor  Landriani,  a  fine  he.id  but  a 
donkey  of  the  first  water ! ' — '  The  Swiss  guard  is  of  the 
(sixteenth  century.  Look  at  tlieir  frills  and  while  plumes 
and  their  halberds,  and  the  red,  yellow,  and  black  striped 

*  An   expression   of  M.  <le  Gitfirdia,  p'gjii  tying  that  the  city  a^peart 


10*  ROME. 

of  their  doublets  I  They  say  this  costume  was  designed 
by  Michael  Angelo.'  *  Michael  Angelo  then  did  all 
this  ? '  '  The  best  of  it.'  '  He  ought  then  to  have  im- 
proved the  gigot.'  '  You  will  become  accustomed  to 
that.'  '  No  more  than  I  will  to  the  wine.  But  my  legs 
are  sinking  from  under  me.' 

The  mass  is  an  imposing  ceremony:  damask  copes 
glitter  at  every  movement ;  the  bishop  and  his  acolytes, 
tall  in  stature  and  nobly  draped,  go  through  their 
manoeuvres  in  the  gravest  and  choicest  of  attitudes. 
Meanwhile  the  cardinals  one  by  one  advance,  wearing 
their  red  hats ;  two  attendants  bear  their  scarlet  trains ; 
they  take  their  seats,  each  with  his  train-bearers  at  his 
feet.  Many  of  these  heads  are  furrowed,  and  profoundly 
expressive,  especially  amongst  the  monks ;  but  none  are 
more  so  than  that  of  the  officiating  prelate,  who,  dark, 
meagre,  hollow-eyed,  and  with  a  magnificent  full  brow 
bearing  a  mitre,  site,  in  his  sparkling  stole,  like  a  motion- 
less Egyptian  god  A  general  of  the  Theatines,  in  a 
brown  and  white  cassock,  delivered  a  sermon  in  Latin, 
with  good  accent  and  appropriate  gesture,  quite  free  of 
exaggeration  or  monotony.  This  scene  would  have 
furnished  Sebastian  Leclerc  with  a  subject  for  an  en- 
graving. 

The  vocal  music  can  be  described  only  as  frightful 
squalling.  All  the  incredible  intervals  that  can  be  con- 
ceived of  seem  to  have  been  capriciously  patched  together. 
Occasionally  a  strain  of  a  mournful  original  character  ia 
distinguished ,  but  the  harmony  is  brutal,  and  there  are 
violent  throat  efforts  worthy  of  drunken  choristers. 
Either  I  have  no  ear  for  music  or  they  sang  false :  the 
altos  were  nothing  but  screeches.  A  big  chorister  in 
the  middle  bellowed :  you  could  see  him  in  his  cage  hard 
at  work,  and  perspiring  freely.  One  piece  was  given 
after  the  sermon  in  a  refined  and  chaste  manner;  but 


THE  STREETS   OP   ROME.  101 

what  disagreeable  voices  I  the  altos  shriek,  and  the  basso* 
bark! 

The  breaking  up  of  this  assemblage  is  interesting. 
You  see  at  the  end  of  the  colonnade  each  cardinal 
entering  his  carriage,  and  his  three  lacqueys  stacking 
themselves  up  behind,  a  red  umbrella,  perched  upon  the 
box,  indicating  to  soldiers  that  they  must  present  arms. 
The  procession  of  retiring  figures  under  the  arcades,  the 
parti-coloured  Swiss  guard,  the  women  in  black  veils, 
and  the  groups  forming  and  dissolving  on  the  staircases, 
the  fountains  playing  and  visible  between  the  columns, — 
form  a  tableau  such  as  is  unknown  at  Paris ;  you  have 
a  composition  in  a  frame,  and  with  an  effect  You 
easily  recognise  an  old  engraving. 

In  strolling  through  the  streets  on  foot  and  in  vehicles, 
you  finally  arrive  at  this  impression,  which  floats  above 
all  others,  that  Rome  may  be  filthy  and  gloomy,  but  not 
commonplace.  Grandeur  and  beauty  are  rare  anywhere, 
but  almost  every  object  here  is  worth  painting,  and 
draws  you  out  of  a  petty  conventional  existence. 

In  the  first  place,  Rome  being  built  on  hills,  its  streets 
have  variety  and  character :  according  to  their  declivity, 
the  sky  is  variously  figured  between  the  files  of  its  build- 
ings. Again,  so  many  objects  indicate  power,  even  at  the 
expense  of  taste ;  churches,  convents,  obelisks,  colonnades, 
fountains,  and  statues,  all  are  commemorative  either  of 
important  characters  and  circumstances  or  of  wealth  and 
grandeur  due  to  material  or  spiritual  conquests.  A  monk 
is  a_  strange  animal,  and  belongs  to  an  extinct  species.  A 
statue  has  no  relationship  to  bourgeois  necessities.  A 
church,  even  Jesuitical,  and  whatever  its  pompous  deco- 
ration may  be,  testifies  to  a  formidable  corporation.  Those 
who  created  monk,  statue,  and  church  have  left  theii 
visible  imprint  on  the  common  roll  of  humanity  either 
through  their  abnegation  or  through  their  energy.  A 


104  ROMB. 

convent  like  the  Trinita  del  Monte  with  the  air  of  a  closed 
fortress,  a  fountain  like  that  of  Trevi,  a  palace  massive 
and  monumental  like  those  of  the  Corso  and  of  tho 
great  square  of  Venice,  denote  beings  and  tastes  not  of 
the  ordinary  stamp. 

On  the  other  hand,  contrasts  abound.  On  leaving,  for 
example,  a  noisy,  animated  street,  you  skirt  an  enormous 
wall  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  oozing  with  moisture  and 
merited  with  mosses,  encountering  nobody,  not  even  a 
cart ;  at  long  intervals  an  iron-knobbed  gate  appears  under 
a  low  arch,  the  secret  exit  of  some  extensive  garden. 
You  turn  to  the  left  and  enter  a  street  of  shops  with 
garrets  swarming  with  ragged  canaille,  and  dogs  rumma- 
ging in  heaps  of  offal ;  it  terminates  in  front  of  the  richly 
sculptured  portal  of  some  over-decorated  church,  a  sort 
of  ecclesiastical  bijou  fallen  upon  a  dunghill.  Beyond 
this  the  sombre,  deserted  streets  again  resume  their 
wonted  development.  Glancing  suddenly  through  an  open 
gateway,  you  see  a  group  of  laurels  and  rows  of  clipped 
box,  and  a  population  of  statues  surrounded  by  jets  of 
spouting  water.  A  cabbage  market  displays  itself  at  the 
base  of  an  antique  column.  Booths,  protected  by  rei 
umbrellas,  stand  against  the  fa9ade  of  a  ruined  temple, 
and  on  emerging  from  a  cluster  of  churches  and  hovels 
you  perceive  plots  of  verdure,  vegetable  gardens,  and 
beyond  these  a  broad  section  of  the  Campagna. 

Finally,  there  quarters  of  the  houses  have  an  original 
aspect ;  each  is  interesting  by  itself.  They  are  not  simple 
piles  of  masonry,  merely  convenient  lodgings  and  expres- 
sionless. Many  of  them  support  on  their  tops  a  second 
and  smaller  house,  also  a  covered  terrace  serving  as  an 
airy  promenade.  The  ugliest,  with  their  rusty  gratings 
and  obscure  corridors  and  tumbling  staircases,  are  repul- 
sive, but  you  stop  to  look  at  them. 

I  must  again  compare  Home  to  an  artist's  studio ;  not, 


THE   STREETS   OP  ROME.  103 

however,  to  that  of  a  fashionable  artist  who,  as  with  us, 
covets  success  and  parades  his  profession  ;  but  to  that  of 
one  who  is  old  and  wears  long  hair  and  whose  genius  of 
former  times  now  displays  itself  in  disputes  with  his  credi- 
tors. He  is  bankrupt,  and  his  creditors  have  more  than 
once  stripped  his  lodging  of  its  furniture ;  but,  as  they 
could  not  carry  away  the  walls,  many  fine  objects  in  it 
have  been  forgotten.  At  the  present  moment  he  lives 
on  his  own  ruins,  acts  as  cicerone,  and  pockets  his  fees, 
somewhat  despising  the  rich  whose  crowns  he  receives. 
He  eats  poor  dinners,  but  consoles  himself  with  souvenirs 
of  the  glorious  exhibitions  in  which  he  once  figured,  quietly 
saying  to  himself,  and  even  at  times  openly,  that  next 
year  he  is  going  to  take  his  revenge.  It  must  be  stated 
that  his  studio  has  a  bad  odour;  the  floor  has  not  been 
swept  for  six  months,  the  sofa  has  been  burnt  by  the 
ashes  of  his  pipe,  and  his  old  mouldy  shoes  lie  in  a  corner, 
and  you  see  on  the  buffet  fragments  of  sausage  and  bits 
of  cheese ;  but  this  buffet  is  of  the  Renaissance  epoch, 
and  that  threadbare  tapestry  hiding  an  old  mattress  is  of 
the  grand  siecle,  and  along  the  wall,  traversed  by  the 
rickety  stove-pipe,  are  ranges  of  pieces  of  armour  and 
rare  inlaid  arquebuses.  You  must  visit  the  place,  but 
not  to  remain  in  it. 

We  traversed  long  sloping  streets,  running  between 
large  walls  with  bulls'-eyes  or  gratings  in  them,  over  an 
interminable  lonely  bright  pavement,  and,  passing  the 
palace  of  Lucrezia  Borgia,  went  as  far  as  San  Pietro  in 
Vinculo  to  see  the  '  Moses '  of  Michael  Angelo.  The 
first  sight  of  this  statue  is  less  surprising  than  one  would 
6'ippose.  We  are  familiar  with  it  engraved  and  reduced ; 
the  imagination,  as  is  always  the  case,  has  exaggerated  it ; 
moreover,  it  is  polished  and  finished  with  extreme  per- 
fection. It  is  in  a  brilliantly  decorated  church,  and  is 
framed  in  by  a  handsome  chapel.  As  you  dwell  on  it, 


108  ROME. 

however,  the  colossal  mass  produces  its  effect.  You  feel 
ehe  imperious  will,  the  ascendency,  the  tragic  energy  ol 
the  legislator  and  exterminator ;  his  heroic  muscles  and 
virile  beard  indicate  the  primitive  barbarian,  the  subduer 
of  men,  while  the  long  head,  and  the  projections  of  the 
temples,  denote  the  ascetic.  Were  he  to  arise,  what  action 
and  what  a  lion's  voice  I 

What  is  most  charming  here  is  what  you  encounter  on 
the  way  unexpectedly ;  now  the  Quirinal  palace  on  the 
Bummit  of  a  hill  entirely  detached  in  the  grey  atmo- 
Bphere,  and  in  front,  its  horses  and  colossi  of  marble ;  a 
little  farther  on  the  pale  verdure  of  a  garden,  and  thfl 
immense  horizon  with  its  melting  clouds;  again  an 
Armenian  convent  with  its  fertilising  waters  flowing  in 
stone  conduits,  its  scattered  palms,  its  enormous  vine, 
which  of  itself  forms  a  bower,  and  its  beautiful  orange 
trees,  so  tranquil  and  so  noble  with  their  burdens  of  golden 
fruit.  Indian  figs  warm  their  thorny  slabs  on  the  sides 
of  the  rocks  ;  delicate  branches  begin  to  put  forth  buds, 
and  no  noise  is  heard  but  the  almost  insensible  dropping 
of  a  warm  rain.  How  easy  to  dream  away  life  here  in 
idle  self-communion !  But  an  ever  gay,  or,  at  least,  a 
healthy  mind  is  imperative. 


CHAPTER  II. 

1NTIQT7E  STATUES — THE  CAPITOL — GREEK  NUDITY  AND  GYMNAFTIO 
LIKE— MORAL  DIFFERENCES  INDICATED  AND  PRODUCED  BY  CHANGS 
OF  COSTUME — BUSTS — PICTURES — THE  FORUM. 

FORTUNATE  am  I  to  have  packed  a  few  Greek  books  in 
my  trunk.  None  could  be  more  useful ;  classical  phrases 
constantly  arise  in  the  mind  in  these  galleries,  this  or  that 
statue  bodying  forth  a  line  of  Homer  or  the  opening  of 
one  of  Plato's  dialogues.  I  assure  you  a  Homer  or  a 
Plato  are  better  guides  than  all  the  archaeologists,  artists, 
and  catalogues  in  the  world.  At  all  events  they  interest 
me  more,  and  render  things  clearer.  When  Menelaus  is 
wounded  by  an  arrow,  Homer  compares  his  white  body, 
stained  with  red  blood,  to  the  ivory  which  a  Carian  woman 
dips  in  purple  to  make  a  blinder  for  a  bridle.  '  Many 
horsemen  are  desirous  to  have  it,  but  the  favour  lies  for  a 
king ;  for  two  purposes — an  ornament  for  his  horse,  and  a 
glory  to  the  driver  :  so,  Menelaus,  were  thy  good  thighs 
and  legs,  and  fair  ankles  beneath,  stained  with  blood." 
This  is  visible,  as  if  seen  by  a  painter  or  sculptor.  Homer 
forgets  pain,  danger,  and  dramatic  effect,  so  sensitive  is  he 
k>  colour  and  form ;  on  the  contrary,  what  less  concerns  the 
ordinary  reader  than  streaming  red  blood  and  the  fine  linea 
of  a  leg,  and  particularly  at  such  a  moment  ?  Flaubert 
and  Gautier,  who  are  regarded  as  innovators  and  eccentric, 
give  precisely  similar  descriptions  nowadays.  The  ancients 

*  The  Iliad  of  Homer,  translated  bj  a  Graduate  of  the  University  of 
Oxford, 


108  ROME. 

lack  artists  as  commentators ;  thus  far  closet  erudites  arc 
their  sole  interpreters.  Those  who  are  familiar  with  an- 
tique vases,  see  nothing  in  them  but  their  design  and  fine 
proportions,  their  classic  merit ;  there  remains  to  be  dis- 
covered their  colouring,  emotion,  life,  all  of  which  is  super- 
abundant. Observe  the  petulance,  the  drollery,  the  in- 
credibly fertile  imagination  of  Aristophanes,  his  prolific, 
surprising,  and  ridiculous  invention,  his  fantastic  buffoon- 
ery, his  incomparable  freshness,  and  the  startlingly  sublime 
poesy  intermingled  with  his  grotesque  imagery.  Put  to- 
gether the  wit  and  fancy  of  all  the  studios  of  Paris  for 
twenty  years,  and  there  would  be  no  approach  to  it.  The 
human  brain  of  those  days  was  organised  and  furnished  in  a 
peculiar  manner ;  sensations  entered  it  with  another  shock, 
images  with  another  relief,  and  ideas  with  other  sequences. 
In  certain  traits  the  ancients  resemble  the  present  Nea- 
politans, in  others  the  social  French  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  in  others  the  young  literary  aspirants  of  the  re- 
publics of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  in  others,  finally,  the 
armed  English  now  extending  their  empire  in  New 
Zealand ;  but  a  lifetime  is  necessary,  and  the  genius  of 
a  Goethe,  to  enable  one  to  reconstruct  souls  of  that  stamp. 
I  see  a  part,  but  not  the  whole. 

Besides  special  collections,  there  are  here  two  grand 
museums  of  antique  sculpture,  those  of  the  Capitol  and  of 
the  Vatican.  They  are  very  well  arranged,  especially  the 
latter:  the  most  precious  statues  are  placed  in  distinct 
cabraets  painted  in  dark  red,  so  that  the  eyes  are  not 
diverted  from  them,  the  statue  being  seen  in  full  light. 
The  ornamentation  is  modest  and  cf  antique  sobriety: 
traditions  are  better  preserved  here  than  elsewhere,  the 
popes  and  their  architects  having  retained  somewhat 
of  grandeur  in  their  taste  even  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries. 

As  to  the  two  edifices,  I  refer  you  to  engravings ;  old 


ANTIQUE   STATUES.  108 

owes  are  best;  first,  because  they  issue  from  a  truer  ienti- 
ment,  and  next,  because  they  have  a  dreary,  or  at  least 
a  grave  aspect.  Let  a  drawing  be  clean  and  fresh,  especially 
as  it  approaches  the  elegant  illustrations  of  the  present  day, 
and  it  represents  Rome  in  an  opposite  sense.  It  must  be 
borne  in  mind  that  a  monumental  structure,  even  when 
modern,  is  defaced  and  neglected ;  winter  has  cracked  its 
stones,  and  the  rains  have  covered  it  with  dingy  spots ;  the 
pavement  of  its  courts  is  disjointed,  and  many  of  the  slabs 
are  broken  and  sunk  in  the  ground ;  its  antique  statues 
display  half  amputated  feet  and  bodies  covered  with  scars; 
the  poor  old  marble  divinities  have  been  scratched  with 
the  knives  of  idle  boys  or  show  the  effects  of  a  long  sojourn 
on  a  damp  soil.  A  biased  imagination,  moreover,  ampli- 
fies :  two  or  three  visits  are  necessary  in  order  to  arrive 
at  just  conceptions.  Who,  for  instance,  has  not  silently 
wondered  on  thinking  of  the  Capitol  ?  This  mighty  word 
agitates  you  beforehand,  and  you  are  disappointed  on  find- 
ing a  moderately  grand  square  flanked  by  three  palaces 
not  at  all  grand.  Nevertheless  it  is  imposing ;  a  grand 
atone  staircase  leading  up  to  it,  gives  it  a  monumental 
entrance.  Two  basalt  lions  guard  the  base  of  the  ascent, 
and  two  colossal  statues  its  summit.  Balustrades  with 
their  solid  lines  cross  and  recross  in  the  air,  while  on  the 
left  a  second  staircase  of  extraordinary  width  and  length 
stretches  upward  to  the  red  facade  of  the  church  of  Ara- 
Cffili.  On  these  steps  hundreds  of  beggars  as  ragged  aa 
those  of  Callot,  clad  in  tattered  hats  and  rusty  brown 
blankets,  are  warming  themselves  majestically  in  the 
sunshine.  You  embrace  all  this  in  a  glance,  the  convent 
and  the  palace,  the  colossi  and  the  canaille :  the  hill  loaded 
with  architecture  suddenly  rises  at  the  end  of  a  street,  its 
Btone  masses  spotted  with  crawling  human  insects.  Thia 
is  peculiar  to  Rome. 

The  Capitol^— In  the  centre  of  the  square  stands 


no  ROME. 

bronze  equestrian  statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  The  atti- 
tude is  perfectly  easy  and  natural ;  he  is  making  a  sign 
with  his  right  hand,  a  simple  action,  that  leaves  him  calm 
while  it  gives  life  to  the  entire  person.  He  is  going  to 
address  his  soldiery,  and  certainly  because  he  has  something 
important  to  say  to  them.  He  does  not  parade  himself; 
he  is  not  a  riding-master  like  most  of  our  modern  eques- 
trian figures,  nor  a  prince  in  state  displaying  his  rank : 
the  antique  is  always  simple.  He  has  no  stirrups ;  this 
is  a  pernicious  modern  contrivance,  interfering  with  the 
freedom  of  the  limbs,  and  due  to  the  same  manufacturing 
spirit  that  has  produced  flannel-jackets  and  jointed  clogs. 
His  horse  is  of  a  strong  stout  species,  still  related  to  the 
horses  of  the  Parthenon.  Nowadays,  after  eighteen 
centuries  of  culture,  the  two  races,  man  and  horse,  have 
"become  refined  and  distingue.  On  the  right,  in  the 
Palazzo  dei  Conservator!,  is  a  superb  Caesar  in  marble, 
wearing  a  cuirass,  and  in  a  no  less  manly,  natural  attitude. 
The  ancients  set  no  value  on  that  half-feminine  delicacy, 
that  nervous  sensibility  which  we  call  distinction,  and  on 
which  we  pride  ourselves.  For  the  distingue  man  of  the 
present  day  a  salon  is  necessary ;  he  is  a  dilettante,  and 
entertaining  with  ladies  ;  although  capable  of  enthusiasm 
he  is  inclined  to  scepticism ;  his  politeness  is  exquisite ;  he 
dislikes  foul  hands  and  disagreeable  odours,  and  shrinks 
iTroin  being  confounded  with  the  vulgar.  Alcibiades  had 
MO  apprehension  of  being  confounded  with  the  vulgar. 

A  huge  dismembered  colossus  has  left  his  marble  feet, 
lingers,  and  head  here ;  the  fragments  lie  strewn  about 
the  court  between  the  columns.  But  the  most  interest- 
ing objects  are  the  barbarian  kings  in  black  marble,  so 
vigorous  and  so  melancholy-looking  in  their  grand  drapery! 
These  are  Roman  captives,  the  vanquished  of  the  north, 
as  they  followed  the  triumphal  car  to  end  their  career 
with  the  axe  on  the  Capitol.  You  cannot  move  without 


GREEK  NUDITY  AND   GYMNASTIC   LIPS.  HI 

encountering  some  new  sign  of  antique  life.  Facing  you 
in  the  court  of  the  museum  is  the  large  statue  of  a  rivel 
deity  stretched  out  over  a  fountain,  a  powerful  pagan 
torso,  with  the  thick  hair  and  ample  beard  of  a  virile  god 
slumbering  half-naked  and  enjoying  a  simple  natural 
existence.  Above  this  the  restorer  of  the  museum, 
Clement  XII.,  has  placed  his  own  charming  little  bust, 
the  student's  and  politician's  subtle,  worn,  and  meditative 
features.  The  first  and  the  second  Rome  appear  side  by 
side. 

How  describe  a  gallery  ?  One  necessarily  falls  into 
enumeration.  Let  me  merely  designate  a  few  statues  as 
points  of  indication,  in  order  to  give  a  form  anl  a  support 
to  the  ideas  they  suggest 

The  hall  of  the  dying  Gladiator. — Here  is  a  real  and 
not  an  ideal  statue ;  the  figure  nevertheless  is  beautiful, 
because  men  of  this  class  devoted  their  lives  to  exercis- 
ing naked  Around  him  are  ranged  an  admirable 
Antinous,  a  grand  draped  Juno,  the  Faun  of  Praxiteles, 
and  an  Amazon  raising  her  bow.  The  ancients  naturally 
represented  man  naked,  whereas  we  as  naturally  represent 
him  draped.  Personal  experience  provided  them  with 
ideas  of  a  torso,  of  a  full  chest  displayed  like  that  of 
Antinous,  of  the  expanded  costal  muscles  of  a  leaning 
side,  of  the  easy  continuity  of  the  hips  and  thighs  of 
a  youthful  form  like  that  of  the  bending  Faun.  In  short, 
they  had  two  hundred  ideas  for  every  form  and  movement 
of  the  nude,  whereas  we  are  limited  to  the  cut  of  a 
dress-coat  and  to  facial  expression.  Art  requires  daily 
experience  and  observation ;  from  this  proceeds  public 
taste ;  that  is  to  say,  the  marked  preference  for  this  01 
that  type.  The  type  defined  and  understood,  there  ara 
always  some  superior  men  to  express  it.  This  is  why 
when  familiar  objects  change  art  changes.  The  mind, 
like  certain  insects,  assumes  the  colour  of  the  plant  on 


Hi  HOME. 

which  it  feeds.  Nothing  is  more  true  than  that  art  is  the 
epitome  of  life. 

A  Faun  in  red  marble. — This  one  plainly  belongs  to 
an  ulterior  epoch ;  but  the  second  age  only  continues  the 
first.  Rome,  Hellenised,  is  another  Greece.  Even  under 
the  Emperors,  under  Marcus  Aurelius,  for  example, 
gymnastic  education  was  not  sensibly  modified.  The  two 
civilisations  make  one,  both  being  the  two  stories  of  the 
same  house.  He  holds  a  cluster  of  grapes  in  each  hand, 
displaying  them  with  an  air  of  charming  good-humour, 
free  from  all  vulgar  sentiment.  Physical  joy  in  antiquity 
is  not  debased,  nor,  as  with  us,  consigned  to  mechanics, 
common  people,  and  drunkards.  In  Aristophanes,  Bacchus 
is  at  once  merry-andrew,  coward,  knave,  glutton,  and  fool, 
and  yet  he  is  a  divinity ;  and  what  frenzy  of  joyoua 
imagination ! 

Two  other  Fauns  with  well-defined  muscles  and  bodies 
turned  half  around,  also  a  Hercules,  a  magnificent  wrestler 
in  bronze-gilt.  The  interest  of  the  attitude  is  wholly 
confined  to  the  backward  action  of  the  body,  which  gives 
another  position  to  the  belly  and  pectoral  muscles.  In 
order  to  comprehend  this  we  have  only  the  swimming 
echools  of  the  Seine,  and  Arpin,  the  terrible  Savoyard. 
But  how  many  have  seen  Arpin  ?  And  who  is  not  dis- 
agreeably affected  in  our  frog-ponds  with  its  undressed 
bodies  paddling  about? 

A  large  sarcophagus  represents  the  story  of  Achilles : 
properly  speaking,  there  is  no  dramatic  interest  in  it,  but 
only  five  or  six  nude  young  males,  two  females  in  the 
centre  draped,  and  two  old  men  in  the  corners.  Each  form 
being  beautiful  and  animated,  is  sufficiently  interesting  in 
itself;  the  action  is  secondary,  as  the  group  is  not  there 
to  represent  this ;  it  simply  binds  the  group  together. 
Passing  a  fine  female  figure  draped,  we  come  to  a  nude 
young  man,  and  then  to  an  admirable  old  man  seated— 


MORAL  DIFFERENCES   AND   CHANGE   OF   COSTUME.  Ill 

all  the  artist  intended  to  express.  To  see  a  body  leaning 
over,  an  arm  upraised,  and  a  trunk  firmly  planted  on  the 
two  hips,  is  pleasure  enough. 

It  is  certain  that  all  this  is  immensely  removed  from 
our  customs.  If  we  cf  the  present  day  are  prepared  for 
any  art  it  is  not  for  K:  tuary,  nor  even  for  the  higher 
walks  of  painting,  but,  u,t  most,  for  the  painting  of  land- 
scape and  of  common  life,  and  to  a  greater  extent  for 
romance,  poetry,  and  music. 

Since  I  do  not  traffic  with  my  thoughts,  and  can 
speak  of  things  as  I  find  them,  I  am  firm  in  the  opinion 
that  the  great  change  in  history  is  the  advent  of  pantaloons : 
all  the  barbarians  ol  the  North  wear  them  in  their  statues ; 
it  marks  the  passage  from  Greek  and  Roman  civilisation 
tc  the  modern. — This  is  not  a  jest  or  a  paradox ,  nothing 
is  more  difficult  than  to  change  a  daily  and  universal  habit. 
For  a  man  to  be  draped  and  undraped  he  must  be  demo- 
lished and  reconstructed.  The  distinctive  trait  of  the 
Renaissance  is  the  abandonment  of  the  two-handed  sword 
and  full  armour  :  the  slashed  doublet  has  succumbed,  and 
the  cap  and  tight  hose  show  the  passage  from  feudal  life 
to  court  life.  A  French  Revolution  was  necessary  to 
banish  breeches  and  small  sword  ;  the  plebeian  or  fagged 
business  man  in  boots,  pantaloons,  and  frock-coat,  now 
replaces  the  courtier  with  his  red-heeled  shoes,  the  em- 
broidered fine  talker  of  the  ante-chamber. — In  the  same  way 
the  nude  is  an  invention  of  the  Greeks.  It  was  discovered 
by  the  Lacedaemonians  along  with  their  tactics  and  regi- 
men ;  the  other  Greeks  adopted  it  towards  the  fourteenth 
Olympiad.  To  the  exercises  for  which  it  is  best  adapted 
they  owe  their  military  supremacy.  If,  as  Herodotua 
says,  the  brave  Medes  were  conquered  at  Plataja,  it  was 
because  they  were  embarrassed  by  their  long  robes.  Each 
Greek  standing  alone  thus  found  that  he  was  more  agile, 
wore  adroit  in  the  use  of  his  limbs,  more  robust,  and  Lettel 


114  ROME. 

prepared  for  the  ancient  system  of  combat  of  man  to  man 
and  body  to  body.  In  this  respect  nudity  formed  on* 
among  many  customs  and  institutions,  and  was  an  out- 
ward sign  by  which  the  nation  distinguished  itself. 

I  now  enter  the  gallery  of  busts.  It  would  be  bettei 
to  speak  of  it  in  sober  phrases  and  with  points  o»f  excla- 
mation ;  but  character  is  so  salient  it  is  impossible  to  do 
otherwise  than  note  it  in  decisive  terms.  These  Greeka 
and  Romans,  after  all,  were  men :  why  not  treat  them  as 
contemporaries  ? 

Scipio  Africanus  :  a  broad  bold  head  and  not  handsome ; 
the  temples  are  flat  like  those  of  carnivorous  animals,  but 
the  square  chin  and  firm  energetic  lips  show  the  animal- 
tamer. 

Pompey  the  Great :  here,  as  in  history,  ranks  in  the 
second  class. 

Cato  of  TJtica :  a  peevish  schoolboy  with  big  ears, 
rigid,  drawn  features  and  distorted  checks,  a  grumbler  and 
narrow-minded. 

Corbulo:  a  wry-necked,  wheedling  dotard,  troubled 
with  the  cholic. 

Aristotle :  a  full  complete  head,  like  that  of  Cuvier, 
slightly  deformed  on  the  right  cheek. 

Theophrastus:  a  face  with  a  worn,  suffering  expres- 
sion. The  complaint  on  happiness,  on  which  Leopardi 
has  commented,  is  by  him. 

Marcus  Aurelius :  his  bust  is  one  of  those  you  encounter 
the  oftenest ;  you  recognise  at  once  his  full  prominent 
eyes.  It  is  a  noble,  melancholy  head,  that  of  a  man 
mastered  by  his  intellect,  a  meditative  idealist. 

Demosthenes :  he  has  all  the  spirit  and  energy  of  the 
man  of  action ;  the  brow  is  somewhat  retreating,  and  the 
eye  is  as  keen  as  a  rapier ;  he  is  the  perfect  combatant, 
Always  armed. 

Terence :   an  absent-minded  dreamer,  with  low  brow, 


BUSTS.  }\s 

§mall  skull,  and  a  melancholy,  impoverished  look ;  a  client 
of  the  Scipios,  a  poor  dependant,  a  former  slave,  a  delicate 
purist,  and  a  sentimental  poet,  whose  comedies  were  less 
esteemed  than  rcpe-dancing. 

Commodus :  a  peculiar,  shrewd,  and  dangerously  wilful 
countenance,  with  full  prominent  eyes ;  a  young  beau,  a 
dandy  capable  of  strange  freaks. 

Tiberius:  not  a  noble  head;  but  for  character  aiid 
capacity  well  qualified  to  carry  the  affairs  of  an  empire 
in  his  head  and  to  govern  a  hundred  million  men. 

Caracalla :  a  square,  vulgar,  violent  head,  restless  like 
that  of  a  wild  beast  about  to  spring. 

Nero  :  a  fine  full  skull,  but  with  an  expression  of  low 
humour.  He  looks  like  an  actor  or  a  leading  singer  at 
the  opera,  vain  and  vicious,  and  diseased  both  in  imagina- 
tion and  in  intellect.  The  principal  feature  is  a  long 
pointed  chin. 

Messalina :  she  is  not  handsome,  and  has  carefully 
decked  herself  with  a  double  row  of  dainty  curls.  There 
is  a  sickly  smile  on  her  face  that  pains  you.  Hers  was 
the  age  of  grand  lorettes :  this  one  exhibited  all  the 
folly,  passion,  sensibility,  and  ferocity  that  the  species 
possesses.  She  it  was  who,  moved  one  day  by  the  elo- 
quence of  an  accused  person,  withdrew  to  conceal  her 
tears,  but  recommending  her  husband  beforehand  not  to 
let  him  escape. 

Vespasian:  a  powerful  man,  firmly  relying  on  well- 
poised  faculties,  ready  for  any  emergency,  circumspect, 
and  worthy  to  be  a  Renaissance  pope. 

Again  in  another  room  observe  a  bust  of  Trajan,  in> 
perially  grand  and  redoubtable,  in  which  Spanish  pride 
and  pomposity  are  most  conspicuous.  The  history  of 
Augustus  should  be  read  on  this  spot :  these  busts  tell 
us  more  of  the  time  than  the  indifferent  chroniclers  re- 
maining to  us  Each  is  an  epitome  of  character,  and. 

II 


115  ROME. 

thanks  to  the  sculptor's  talent,  which  has  effaced  accidents 
and  suppressed  minor  details,  this  character  is  apparent 
at  the  first  glance. 

After  the  Antonines  art  visibly  declines.  Many  of  these 
itatues  and  busts  are  inadvertently  comic,  disagreeably 
BO,  and  even  repulsive,  as  if  the  sculptor  had  copied  ar 
old  woman's  grimaces,  the  quivering  features  of  a  crafty 
man,  and  other  low  and  unpleasant  traits  of  a  nervous, 
shattered  machinery.  Such  sculpture  resembles  photo- 
Bculpture;  it  approaches  caricature  in  the  statue  of  a 
woman  with  a  nude  torso  and  a  surly  head  crowned  with 
bulging  knobs 

Wliibt  thus  indulging  in  revery  and  in  meditation 
over  these  beings  of  stone,  the  murmuring  water  jutting 
from  lions'  mouths  makes  music  around  me,  and  at  every 
turn  of  the  gallery  I  obtain  glimpses  of  landscape,  now  a 
broad  surface  of  dark  wall  overhung  with  glowing  oranges, 
now  a  vast  staircase  decked  with  clambering  vines,  now  a 
confused  group  of  roofs,  towers,  and  terraces,  and,  on  the 
horizon,  the  enormous  Colosseum 

I  am  not  disposed  to  see  more  to-day,  and  yet  how 
can  one  possibly  refrain  from  entering  the  neighbouring 
gallery,  knowing  that  it  contains  the '  Rape  of  Europa,'  by 
Paul  Veronese  ?  There  is  a  duplicate  at  Venice ;  but 
this  picture,  as  it  stands  before  one,  is  ravishing.  En- 
gravings give  no  idea  of  it:  one  must  see  that  blooming 
maid  in  her  dark  seagreen  robe  as  she  leans  over  to  fasten 
her  mistress's  bracelet,  the  noble  form  and  calm  action  of 
the  young  girl  raising  her  arm  towards  the  crown  borne 
by  cupids,  the  joy  and  delicate  voluptuousness  radiat- 
ing from  her  smiling  eyes,  and  from  those  beautiful  rich 
forms  and  from  the  brilliancy  and  harmony  of  all  thii 
blended  colour.  Europa  is  seated  on  a  magnificent  silken 
and  golden  cloth,  striped  with  black ;  her  robe,  of  a  pale 
violet  hue,  discloses  her  suowy  foot  beneath  it;  the  carelesp 


THE   FORUM  117 

folds  of  the  chemise  frame  the  soft  round  throat ;  hei 
dreamy  eyes  vaguely  regard  the  cherubs  sporting  in  tha 
air,  and  the  arms,  neck,  and  ears  sparkle  with  white 
pearls. 

The  Forum  is  a  few  paces  off :  I  descend  to  it  and  rest 
myself.  The  sky  was  of  perfect  purity ;  the  clear  lines 
of  the  walls  and  of  the  ruined  arcades,  one  above  the 
other,  relieved  against  the  azure  as  if  drawn  with  the 
finest  pencil :  the  eye  delighted  in  following  them  to  and 
fro,  and  repeatedly  returned  to  them.  Form,  in  this  limpid 
atmosphere,  has  its  own  beauty,  independent  of  expression 
and  colour,  as,  for  instance,  a  circle,  an  oval,  or  a  clean 
curve  relieving  on  a  clear  background.  Little  by  little 
the  azure  becomes  almost  green,  an  imperceptible  green 
like  that  of  precious  stones,  or  that  of  the  source  of  a  foun- 
tain, but  still  more  delicate.  There  was  nothing  in  this 
long  avenue  that  was  not  interesting  or  beautiful ;  trium- 
phal arches  half  buried  and  obliquely  opposed  to  each 
other,  remnants  of  fallen  columns,  enormous  shafts  and 
capitals,  lining  both  sides  of  the  way  ;  to  the  left  the 
colossal  arches  of  Constantine's  basilica,  varied  with  green 
pendent  bushes ;  on  the  opposite  side  the  ruins  of  Cresar's 
palace,  a  vast  mound  of  red  bricks  crowned  with  trees ; 
Saint  Como  with  a  portal  of  debased  columns,  and  Santa 
Francesca  with  its  elegant  campanile ;  above  the  horizon 
a  row  of  dark,  delicate  cypresses,  and  farther  on,  similar 
to  a  mole  in  ruins,  the  crumbling  arcades  of  the  temple 
of  Venus ;  and  finally,  as  if  to  bar  all  progress,  the  gigan- 
tic Colosseum  gilded  with  smiling  sunshine. 

Ove~r  all  these  grand  objects  modern  life  has  installed 
itself  like  a  mushroom  on  a  dead  oak.  Fences  of  rough- 
hewn  stakes,  like  those  of  a  village  fete,  surround  the  pit 
out  of  which  arise  the  disinterred  columns  of  Jupiter 
Stator.  Grass  covers  its  excavated  sides.  Tattered 
vagabonds  are  pitching  stone  quoits.  Old  women  and 


lift  SOME. 

dirty  children  are  basking  in  the  sun  amidst  heaps  of 
ordure.  Monks  in  white  and  brown  frocks  pass  along, 
and  after  these  files  of  scholars  in  black  hats,  led  by  nn 
ecclesiastic  in  red.  An  iron  bedstead  factory,  in  front  oi 
the  basilica,  salutes  the  ear  with  its  clatter.  You  read  U 
the  entrance  of  the  Colosseum  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin 
that  procures  a  hundred  days'  indulgence,  and  in  this 
prayer  she  is  treated  as  an  independent  goddess.  You 
still  recognise,  notwithstanding  all  this,  some  of  the  pro- 
minent traits  of  the  ancient  race  and  of  former  genius. 
Several  of  those  old  women  resemble  Renaissance  sibyls. 
That  peasant  in  leather  leggings  with  his  earth-stained 
mantle  has  an  admirable  face — a  sloping  nose,  Greek  chin, 
and  speaking  black  eyes  that  flash  and  glow  with  natural 
genius.  Under  Constant  ine's  arch  I  listen  for  half  an 
hour  to  a  voice  apparently  chanting  litanies  ;  on  approach- 
ing, I  find  a  young  man  on  the  ground  reading  in  a  reci- 
tative tone  to  an  audience  of  five  or  six  droll  characters 
stretched  out  at  full  length  beside  him,  the  combat 
between  Roland  and  Marsilia  in  Orlando  Furioso. — I 
return  and  take  my  supper  in  the  nearest  auberge,  at 
Lepri's;  a  dirty  vagabond,  a  hairdresser  with  an  old 
pomatumed  wig  plastering  his  cheeks  and  provided  with 
a  mandolin  and  a  small  portable  piano  with  pedals, 
instals  himself  in  a  neighbouring  room,  and  with  arms 
and  feet  going,  sings  in  a  bass  voice,  and  plays  the  airs  of 
Verdi  and  a  finale  from  La  Sonnambula.  The  delicacy 
elegance,  and  variety  of  his  performance  are  admirable 
This  poor  fellow  has  a  soul,  an  artist's  soul,  and  one  for 
gets  all  about  eating  in  listening  to  him. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

f  UK  TATICAN-  THB  IDEAL  OF  MAN  AMONG  THI?  ANCIENTS— THM 
WELKAGKR,  TIB  APOLLO  BELVEDERE,  THE  LAOCOON,  AND  THE  HER 
OUKY— THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TIBER. 

The  Vatican. — This  is  probably  the  greatest  treasury  of 
antique  sculpture  in  the  world.  Here  is  a  page  of  Greek 
which  one  ought  to  keep  in  mind  in  passing  through  it. 

*  I  will  question  them,  said  Socrates,  whether  among 
the  youths  of  the  time  there  were  any  that  were  distin- 
guished for  wisdom  or  for  beauty,  or  for  both.     On  this, 
Critias,  looking  towards  the  door,   where  he  saw  some 
youths  coming  in,  wrangling  with  one  another,  and  a 
crowd  of  others  following  them,  said :    "As  for  beauty, 
Socrates,  you  may  judge  for  yourself;  for  those  who  have 
just  entered  are  the  admirers  of  him  who  is  reckoned  the 
handsomest  young  man  now  going;  no  doubt  they  are 
now  his  precursors,  and  he  himself  will  be  here  soon." 
"And  who,  and  whose  son  is  he  ?  "  said  I.    "  You  know 
him,"  said  he.    "  But  he  was  a  child  when  you  went  away. 
It  is  Charmides,  the  son  of  our  uncle  Glaucon,  and  my 
cousin."     "  By  Zeus !  I  knew  him,"  said  I;  "even  then  he 
was  not  ill-favoured  as  a  boy  ;  but  he  must  be  now  quite 
a  young  man."  "  You  will  soon  know,"  said  he,  "  how  big 
he  is,  and  how  well-favoured."  And  as  he  spoke,  Charmidef 
entered. 

*  He  did  seem  to  me  wonderfully  tall  and  beautiful,  and 
all  his  companions  appeared  to  be  in  love  with   him ; 
such  ail  impression  and  commotion  did  he  make  when  h« 


110  HOME. 

came  into  the  room :  and  other  admirers  came  in  his  suite. 
And  that  we  men  looked  at  him  with  pleasure  was  natural 
enough.  But  I  remarked  that  the  boys,  even  the  smallest, 
never  took  their  eyes  off  him ;  but  all  looked  at  him  like 
persons  admiring  a  statue.' 

*  So  Chaerephon,  addressing  me  in  particular,  said : 
"  Well,  Socrates,  what  do  you  think  of  the  youth  ?  Is  he 
not  good-looking  ?  "  "  He  is,"  said  I,  "  perfectly  admir- 
able." "And  yet,"  said  he,  "if  you  were  to  see  him 
undressed  for  his  exercises,  you  would  say  that  his  face 
was  the  worst  part  about  him,  he  is  so  handsome  every 
way."  And  they  all  said  the  same  as  Chterephon. 

'  "  Charmides,"  I  said,  "  it  is  natural  that  you  should 
surpass  the  others,  for  no  one  here,  I  think,  can  point  out 
in  Athens  two  other  families  whose  alliance  could  produce 
any  one  handsomer  or  better  than  those  from  which  you 
sprung.  Indeed  your  paternal  house,  that  of  Critias,  the 
eon  of  Dropide,  is  celebrated  by  Anacreon,  Solon,  and 
many  other  poets  as  excelling  in  beauty,  in  virtue,  and  in 
all  other  things  on  which  happiness  depends.  And  like- 
wise that  of  your  mother ;  for  no  one  appears  more  beau- 
tiful nor  more  great  than  your  uncle  Pyrilampe,  every 
time  that  he  is  sent  as  ambassador  to  the  great  king,  or 
to  any  other  monarch  on  the  continent.  The  latter  house 
is  in  no  way  surpassed  by  the  former.  Born  of  such 
parents,  it  is  reasonable  that  you  should  be  first  of  all." '  * 

With  this  scene  in  your  mind,  you  may  wander  through 
these  grand  halls  and  see  these  statues  act  and  think,  the 
Discobolus,  for  instance,  and  the  young  Athlete,  a  copy, 
it  is  said,  after  Lysippus.  The  latter  has  just  finished  a 
race,  and  holds  in  his  hand  a  number  by  which  you  know 
that  he  came  in  fifth ;  he  is  rubbing  himself  with  the 
•trigil.  His  head  is  small,  his  intellect  being  ample  foi 

•  The  Platonic  Dialogues,  by  Win.  Whewell,  D  J). 


THE   IDEAL   OP   MAN  AMONG  THE   ANCIENTS.        121 

the  corporeal  exercise  which  is  just  terminated ;  such  glory 
and  such  occupation  suffice  for  him.  In  fact  in  the  best 
days  of  Greece  gymnastic  triumphs  were  deemed  so  im- 
portant, that  many  of  the  young  devoted  years  to  a  pre- 
paration for  them,  under  masters,  and  a  special  regimen 
similar  to  that  of  our  race-horses  under  their  trainers, 
He  appears  to  be  fatigued,  and  is  scraping  off  the  dust 
and  perspiration  adhering  to  his  skin  ;  if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  he  is  currying  himself.  This  term  is  re- 
pugnant to  French  ears,  but  it  was  not  so  to  the  Greeks, 
who  did  not  as  we  do — separate  human  life  from  animal 
life.  Homer,  enumerating  the  warriors  before  Troy, 
places  men  and  horses  indifferently  on  the  same  level : 
*  These,'  says  he,  *  are  the  chiefs  and  the  kings  of  Greece. 
Tell  me,  O  Muse,  which  of  these  was  best,  both  of  warriors 
and  of  horses  ?  ' 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  consider  what  flesh  such  a 
life  produced,  what  firmness  of  tissue,  what  a  tone  oil, 
dust,  sunshine,  perspiration,  and  the  strigil  must  have 
given  to  the  muscles !  In  the  Rivals  of  Plato,  the  youth 
devoted  to  gymnastics  jeers  his  adversary  devoted  to 
literature :  *  It  is  only  excercise  which  strengthens  the 
body  !  See  Socrates,  that  poor  fellow ;  he  neither  sleeps 
nor  eats ;  he  is  lean,  long-necked,  and  ill  on  account  of 
study  1  And  here  they  all  laughed. ' 

The  body  of  this  figure  is  perfectly  beautiful,  almost 
real,  for  he  is  neither  god  nor  hero.  For  this  reason  the 
little  toe  of  the  foot  is  imperfect,  the  arm  above  the  elbow 
meagre,  and  the  fall  of  the  loins  strongly  marked ;  but 
the  legs,  and  especially  the  right  one,  as  viewed  behind 
possess  the  spring  and  elasticity  of  those  of  a  greyhound. 
Before  such  a  statue  one  fully  realises  the  difference 
Vet  ween  antique  civilisation  and  our  own.  An  entire 
4ty  selected  the  best  young  men  of  the  best  families  for 
wrestling  and  running ;  these  j  erformances  were  witnessed 


122  BOMB. 

by  everybody,  both  by  men  and  women ;  they  compare4 
together  backs,  legs,  and  breasts,  every  muscle  brought 
into  play  in  the  thousand  diversities  of  muscular  effort.  A 
common  looker-on  was  a  connoisseur,  as  nowadays  any- 
body that  can  ride  criticises  horses  at  the  ( Derby,'  or  in 
the  ring.  On  his  return  to  the  city  the  victor  received 
a  public  welcome;  sometimes  he  was  chosen  general ;  hia 
name  was  placed  on  the  public  records,  and  his  statue 
ranked  with  those  of  protecting  heroes ;  the  victor  in  the 
races  gave  his  name  to  the  Olympiad.  When  the  '  Ten 
Thousand,  arrived  in  sight  of  the  Black  Sea,  and  found 
themselves  safe,  their  first  impulse  was  to  celebrate  games ; 
having  escaped  from  the  barbarians  their  former  Greek 
life  was  now  to  recommence.  '  This  hill  is  an  excellent 
place,'  said  Dracontios,  *  where  he  who  wills  may  run 
where  he  pleases.'  *  But  how  can  you  run  on  such  rough 
and  bushy  ground  ? '  *  So  much  the  worse  for  him  who 
falls ! '  In  the  race  of  the  grand  stadium,  more  than 
sixty  Cretans  presented  themselves ;  the  others  contended 
in  wrestling,  boxing,  and  the  pancratium.  It  was  a  fine 
sight,  for  many  athletes  were  there,  and,  as  their  com- 
panions regarded  them,  they  made  great  efforts.' 

A  century  later,  in  the  time  of  Aristotle,  Menander, 
and  Demosthenes,  when  intellectual  culture  was  complete, 
and  when  philosophy  and  comedy  perfected  themselves 
and  began  to  decline,  Alexander,  disembarking  on  the 
Troad,  stripped  himself,  along  with  his  companions,  tf» 
honour  the  tomb  of  Achilles  with  races.  Imagine  Nap«»» 
leon  acting  in  a  similar  manner  on  his  first  campaign  in 
Italy.  The  corresponding  action  with  him  I  suppose 
would  be  buttoning  up  his  uniform  and  gravely  assisting 
at  a  Te  Deum  in  Milan  Cathedral. 

One  sees  the  perfection  of  this  system  of  corporeal 
education  in  the  young  athlete  who  is  pitching  the  (h'scu*t 
in  the  curve  of  the  body  bending  over,  in  the  disposition 


THE   IDEAL  OP  MAN  AMONG   THE   ANCIEftTS.        12J 

of  the  limbs  extended  or  contracted  so  as  to  concen 
trate  the  greatest  possible  force  at  one  point.  Plato  has 
a  significant  paragraph  on  this  subject.  He  divides 
education  into  two  equally  important  branches,  gymnas- 
tics and  music.  By  gymnastics  he  means  whatever  re- 
lates to  the  formation  and  exercise  of  the  naked  figure ; 
by  music  whatever  relates  to  the  voice,  that  is  to  say,  not 
only  melody  but  the  words  and  ideas  of  hymns  and  poems 
that  impart  a  knowledge  of  the  religion,  justice,  and 
history  of  heroes.  What  an  insight  this  gives  us  into  the 
life  of  the  youth  of  antiquity !  What  a  contrast  when 
placed  alongside  of  our  smattering  systems  ! 

A  grand  reclining  statue  called  '  The  Nile,'  a  copy 
of  which  is  in  the  Tuileries.  Nothing  could  be  more 
graceful,  more  fluid  than  these  infantile  diminutive  crea- 
tures playing  around  this  large  body;  nothing  could 
better  express  the  fulness,  the  repose,  the  indefinable, 
the  almost  divine  life  of  a  river.  A  divine  body — these 
terms,  coupled  together  in  a  modern  language,  seem  to 
be  incompatible,  and  yet  they  express  the  mother  idea 
of  antique  civilisation. — Behind  this  figure  stand  some 
admirable  nude  athletes,  quite  young  and  holding  phials 
of  oil ;  one  of  them,  apparently  about  thirteen  years 
of  age  is  the  Lysis  or  Menexenes  of  Plato. 

From  time  to  time  inscriptions  are  disinterred,  throw 
ing  considerable  light  on  these  usages  and  sentiments  so 
remote  from  ours.  The  following,  published  this  year,  is 
an  inscription  in  honour  of  a  young  athlete  of  Thera; 
it  was  found  on  the  pedestal  of  his  effigy,  and  3te  four 
verses  possess  all  the  beauty,  simplicity,  and  force  of  a 
statue.  '  Victory  to  the  pugilist  is  at  the  price  of  blood , 
but  this  youth,  the  breath  still  warm  from  the  rude  com- 
bat of  the  boxer,  firmly  withstood  the  severe  labour  of  the 
pancratium,  and  the  same  sun  saw  Dorocleides  twic« 
downed. 


124  HOME. 

Evil,  however,  must  be  considered  as  well  as  the  good 
Love  as  induced  by  gymnastic  life  is  a  perversion  oi 
human  nature ;  in  this  connection  the  narrations  of  Plato 
are  extravagant.  Again,  these  antique  customs  which 
respect  the  animal  in  man,  likewise  react  and  develop 
the  animal  in  man,  and  in  this  relation  Aristophanes  is 
Eeandalous.  We  fancy  ourselves  corrupt  because  we 
have  licentious  romances,  but  what  would  we  say  if  one 
of  our  theatres  should  give  us  his  Lysistrate  ?  Sculpture, 
fortunately,  shows  us  nothing  of  this  singular  society  but 
its  beauty.  A  standing  canephora  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Braccio-Nuovo  is  similar  to  those  of  the  Parthenon, 
although  of  an  inferior  workmanship.  When,  like  this 
figure,  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  first  families  wore  only 
one  garment,  and  over  this  a  short  mantle,  and  was 
accustomed  to  carrying  vases  on  her  head,  and,  conse- 
quently obliged  to  stand  erect ;  when  her  toilet  consisted 
only  of  binding  up  her  hair  or  letting  it  fall  in  ringlets, 
and  her  face  was  not  wrinkled  with  innumerable  petty 
graces  and  petty  anxieties,  then  could  a  woman  assume 
the  tranquil  attitude  of  this  statue.  To-day  a  relic  of  this 
is  visible  amongst  the  peasants  of  the  environs  who  carry 
baskets  on  their  heads,  but  they  are  disfigured  by  labour 
and  rags. — The  bosom  appears  under  the  tunic,  which 
adheres  closely  to  the  figure,  and  is  evidently  a  simple 
linen  mantle;  you  see  the  form  of  the  leg  which  breaks  the 
stuff  into  folds  at  the  knee,  and  the  feet  are  naked  in  their 
sandals.  No  words  can  describe  the  natural  seriousness 
of  the  countenance.  Certainly,  if  one  could  behold  the 
real  person  with  her  white  arms  and  her  black  hair  in 
pure  sunlight,  his  knees  would  bend  as  if  before  a  goddess 
with  reverence  and  delight. 

Look  at  a  statue  entirely  veiled,  for  instance,  that  of 
1  Modesty ;'  it  is  evident  that  the  antique  costume 
sffected  no  change  in  the  form  of  the  body,  that  thf 


THE   IDEAL   OP   MAN  AMONG  THE   ANCIENTS.        125 

adhesive  01  looee  folds  of  drapery  received  their  forma 
and  changes  from  it ;  that  one  easily  detects  through  the 
folds  the  equilibrium  of  the  entire  frame,  the  rotundity  of 
the  shoulders  or  of  the  thigh,  and  the  hollow  of  the  back. 
The  idea  of  man  was  not  then,  as  with  us,  that  of  a  pure 
or  impure  spirit,  plus  an  overcoat  or  a  crinoline,  but  a 
being  with  a  back,  a  breast,  muscular  joints,  a  spinal 
column,  visible  vertebra,  and  a  neck  with  tendons  and  a 
firm  leg  from  the  heel  to  the  loins.  It  has  been  stated 
that  Homer  was  versed  in  anatomy  because  he  so  accu- 
rately describes  wounds,  the  clavicle  and  the  iliac  bone ; 
what  he  knew  of  man  was  simply  what  he  knew  of  his 
belly  and  thorax,  the  same  as  all  other  men  of  that  time. 
My  own  slight  medical  studies  have  considerably  en- 
lightened me  in  these  matters ;  it  is  impossible  to  under- 
stand the  conceptions  of  these  artists,  if  one  has  not 
himself  felt  the  articulations  of  the  neck  and  limbs ;  if 
oiie  has  not  acquired  beforehand  some  idea  of  the  two 
master  portions  of  the  body,  the  movable  bust  on  its 
basin,  and  likewise  the  mechanism  of  the  muscular  sys- 
tem extending  from  the  sole  of  the  foot  up  the  thigh 
to  the  hollow  of  the  lumbar  region,  which  enables  a  man 
to  stand  and  keep  himself  erect. 

None  of  this  is  possible  without  the  antique  costume.  Ob- 
serve '  Diana  regarding  Endymion ; '  her  robe  falls  to  her 
feet;  she  has  besides  this  the  usual  over-garment,  but  the 
foot  is  naked.  Put  a  shoe  on  it  like  that  worn  by  the  young 
ladies  promenading  the  gallery  here  with  their  guide-books 
in  thjeir  hands,  and  there  is  no  longer  a  natural  body  but  an 
artificial  machine.  It  is  not  a  human  being  but  a  jointed 
cuirass,  very  good  for  climatic  rigour  and  pleasingly 
adorned  to  grace  a  parlour.  Woman,  through  culture 
and  the  modern  system  of  dressing,  has  become  a  sort  of 
laccd-up  scarabee,  stiff  in  her  grey  corslet,  mounted  on 
hard  polished  claws  ar.d  loaded  with  various  brilliant 


126  ROME. 

appendages,  all  her  envelopes,  ribbons,  caps,  and  crinolines 
agitated  and  fluttering  like  antennae  and  the  double  se1 
of  wings.  Very  often  this  figure  assumes  the  expression 
of  an  insect ;  the  entire  body  hums  with  the  restless  acti- 
vity of  the  bee,  its  beauty  mainly  consisting  of  nervous 
vivacity,  and  especially  when  coquettishly  arranging  its 
lustrous  attire  and  the  complicated  apparatus  of  jewellery 
that  gleams  and  flashes  around  it. 

Here,  on  the  contrary,  the  nude  foot  shows  that  the  long 
tunic  is  simply  a  veil  of  no  great  importance ;  the  belt  is 
only  a  cord  fastened  beneath  the  breasts  and  is  tied  in  a 
careless  manner,  the  two  breasts  expanding  the  material , 
the  tunic  clasped  over  the  shoulder  is  not  broader  than  the 
width  of  two  fingers,  so  that  you  feel  the  shoulder  ex- 
tending into  the  arm,  which  is  full  and  strong,  and  not  at 
all  resembling  those  filamentous  appendages  that  hang 
nowadays  by  the  sides  of  a  corset.  As  soon  as  the  corset 
is  worn  there  is  no  longer  a  natural  form ;  this  dress,  on  the 
contrary,  can  be  slipped  on  or  off  in  a  second ;  it  is  simply 
a  linen  mantle  taken  up  for  a  covering. 

All  this  shows  itself  in  the  Braccio-Nuovo  and  in  count- 
less statues  besides,  such  as  the  Augustus  and  the  Tiberius. 
Alongside  of  each  prominent  figure  is  an  emperor's  bust 
One  cannot  mention  all ;  I  have  only  to  remark  a  Julia, 
daughter  of  Titus.  The  form  here  is  fine,  but  the  head 
bears  the  ridiculous  modern  knobs.  Such  a  head-dress 
destroys  the  effect  of  sculpture,  and  the  entire  sentiment  of 
the  antique. 

From  this  room  you  follow  a  long  corridor  crowded  with 
Greek  and  Roman  remains,  and  then  enter  the  Musee 
Pio  Clementine,  where  the  works  of  art  are  separated  and 
grouped  each  around  some  important  piece  in  apartments 
of  average  size.  I  will  not  dwell  on  merely  curious  ob- 
jects, such  as  the  tomb  of  the  Scipios,  so  prized  by  anti- 
quarians and  so  simple  in  form,  the  stone  out  of  which  it 


THE  MELEAGER.  127 

is  fashioned  resembling  baked  ashes.  The  men  herein 
interred  belong  to  that  generation  of  great  Romans  who 
in  conquering  Samnium  and  organising  colonies  established 
Jhe  power  of  Rome  over  Italy,  and  consequently  ovr  r  the 
whole  world.  They  were  its  true  founders ;  the  van- 
quishers of  Carthage  and  Macedonia,  and  the  rest  that 
fallowed  them,  only  continued  their  work.  This  block  oi 
peperine  is  one  of  the  corner  stones  of  the  edifice  in  which 
we  now  live,  and  its  inscription  seems  to  address  us  in  the 
grave  tones  of  the  dead,  couched  there  for  one-and-twenty 
centuries. 

Cornelius  Lucius  Scipio  the  Bearded, 

Born  of  his  father  Gnaevus,  a  man  wise  and  brave, 

Whose  beauty  was  equal  to  his  virtue. 

He  was  censor,  consul,  aedile  in  your  city, 

Took  Taurasia,  Cisauna  in  Samnium, 

Subjected  all  Lucania,  and  bore  off  hostages. 

Here  are  the  masterpieces ;  and  first  the  '  Torso,'  so 
lauded  by  Michael  Angelo.  Indeed,  in  its  life,  in  its  gran- 
deur of  style,  in  the  vigorous  setting  of  the  thighs,  in  its 
spirited  action,  and  in  the  mingling  of  human  passion  with 
ideal  nobleness,  it  is  in  conformity  with  his  manner. — A 
little  farther  on  is  the  *  Meleager,'  of  which  there  is  a  copy  in 
the  Tuileries.  This  is  simply  a  body,  but  one  of  the  finest 
I  ever  saw.  The  head,  almost  square,  modelled  in  solid 
sections  like  that  of  Napoleon,  has  only  a  mediocre  brow, 
and  the  expression  seems  to  be  that  of  an  obstinate 
man ;  at  all  events  nothing  about  it  indicates  the  great 
capacity  and  flexibility  of  intellect  which  we  never 
fail  to  bestow  on  our  statues,  and  which  at  once  suggest* 
to  the  spectator  the  idea  of  offering  pantaloons  and  over- 
coat to  a  poor  great  man  so  lightly  dressed.  The  beauty 
of  this  figure  consists  in  a  powerful  neck  and  a  torso  ad- 
mirably continued  by  the  thigh ;  he  is  a  hunter  and  a 
warrior,  and  nothing  more ;  the  muscles  of  the  ankle  denoti 


128  ROME. 

this  as  well  as  the  head.  These  people  invented  the 
horse-breeding  system  for  man,  and  hence  their  rank  in 
history.  The  Spartans  of  ancient  Greece,  who  set  the 
example  to  other  cities,  loaned  each  other  their  wives  in 
order  to  obtain  an  elite  stock.  Plato,  accordingly,  who  is 
their  admirer,  advises  magistrates  to  arrange  annual 
marriages,  so  that  the  finest  men  may  be  united  to  the 
finest  women. 

Xenophon  for  his  part  blames  Athens,  which  has  no 
system  like  this,  and  praises  the  education  of  Spartan 
women,  so  entirely  planned  with  a  view  to  maternity  at  a 
suitable  age,  and  to  the  securing  of  beautiful  offspring. 
'  Their  young  girls,'  he  says,  *  exercise  in  running  and  in 
wrestling,  and  this  is  wisely  ordered,  for  how  can  females 
brought  up,  as  is  usually  the  custom,  to  make  fabrics  of 
wool  and  to  remain  tranquil  give  birth  to  anything  great  ?' 
He  remarks  that  in  their  marriages  all  is  regulated  with 
this  intention ;  an  old  man  may  not  possess  a  young  wife 
for  himself:  he  must  select  *  among  the  young  men  whose 
form  and  spirit  he  most  admires,  one  whom  he  will  take 
into  his  house  and  who  will  give  him  children.'  We  see 
that  this  people,  who  in  their  national  institutions  pushed 
the  gymnastic  and  military  spirit  the  farthest,  were  inte- 
rested above  all  things  in  fashioning  a  fine  race. 

A  small  rotunda  alongside  contains  the  masterpieces  of 
Canova,  so  much  praised,  I  know  not  why,  by  Stendhal. 
There  is  a  Perseus,  an  elegant  effeminate  figure,  and  two 
wrestlers,  who  are  merely  rancorous  pugilists,  or  naked 
cartmen  engaged  in  commonplace  fisticuffing.  Nothing 
here  intervenes  between  insipidity  and  coarseness,  between 
the  parlour  dandy  and  the  stout  porter.  This  impotence 
ehows  at  a  glance  the  difference  between  the  antique 
and  the  modem. 

Continuing  on,  you  come  to  the  Belvedere  '  Mercury,1 
a  young  man  standing  like  the  Melenger,  but  still  more 


THE  APOLLO   BELV1DEEE.  129 

beautiful.  The  torso  is  more  vigorous  and  the  head  more 
refined.  A  smiling  expression  flickers  lightly  over  the 
countenance,  the  grace  and  modesty*  of  a  well-born  youth 
capable  of  expressing  himself  properly  because  he  is  of  an 
intelligent  and  select  race,  but  who  hesitates  to  speak 
because  his  soul  is  still  fresh.  The  Greek  ephelos,  before 
idiom  Aristophanes  pleads  the  cause  of  the  just  and  the 
unjust,  ran,  wrestled;  and  swam  long  enough  to  secure  that 
euperb  chest  and  those  supple  muscles ;  and  he  had  still 
enough  of  primitive  simplicity,  and  was  sufficiently  exempt 
from  the  curiosity  disputes  and  subtleties,  then  beginning 
to  be  introduced,  to  possess  those  tranquil  features.  This 
tranquillity  is  so  great,  that  at  the  first  glance  it  might  be 
taken  for  a  moody  and  somewhat  melancholy  air.  Setting 
aside  the  Venus  of  Milo  and  the  statues  of  the  Parthenon, 
I  know  of  nothing  comparable  to  it. 

The  Apollo  Belvedere  belongs  to  a  more  recent  and  a  less 
simple  age.  Whatever  its  merit  may  be,  it  has  the  de- 
fect of  being  a  little  too  elegant ;  it  might  well  please 
Winckelmann  and  the  critics  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
His  plaited  locks  fall  behind  the  ear  in  the  most  charming 
manner,  and  are  gathered  above  the  brow  in  a  kind  of 
diadem,  as  if  arranged  by  a  woman  ;  the  attitude  reminds 
one  of  a  young  lord  repelling  somebody  that  troubled  him. 
This  Apollo  certainly  displays  savoir-vivre,  also  conscious- 
ness of  his  rank — I  am  sure  he  has  a  crowd  of  domestics. 

Neither  is  the  Laocoon  of  very  ancient  date ;  it  is  my 
belief  that  if  these  two  statues  have  obtained  more  admi- 
ration than  others,  it  is  because  they  approach  nearer  to 
the  taste  of  modern  times.  This  work  is  a  compromise 
between  two  styles  and  two  epochs,  similar  to  one  of  Euri- 
pides' tragedies.  The  gravity  and  elevation  of  the  early 
style  still  subsists  in  the  symmetrical  form  of  the  two  sons 
and  in  the  noble  head  of  the  father,  who,  his  strength  and 

*  Infans  pudor. 
K 


ISO  ROME. 

courage  both  gone,  contracts  his  brow,  but  utters  no  cry 
of  pain ;  while  the  later  art,  sentimental,  and  aiming  at 
expression,  shows  itself  in  the  terrible  and  affecting 
nature  of  the  subject,  in  the  frightful  reality  of  the  writh- 
ing forms  of  the  serpents,  in  the  toucliing  weakness  of  the 
poor  boy  that  dies  instantly,  in  the  finish  of  the  muscles 
of  the  back  and  the  foot,  in  the  painful  swelling  of  the 
veins,  and  in  the  minute  anatomy  of  suffering  generally. 
Aristophanes  would  say  of  this  group,  as  he  said  of  the 
Hippolytus  or  Iphigenia  of  Euripides,  that  it  makes  us 
weep  and  does  not  fortify  us ;  instead  of  changing  women 
into  men,  it  transforms  men  into  women. 

If  the  footsteps  of  visitors  did  not  disturb  the  tranquil- 
lity of  these  halls,  one  might  pass  the  entire  day  in  them 
unconscious  of  the  flight  of  time.  Each  divinity,  each  hero 
here,  has  his  own  oratory,  surrounded  by  inferior  statues  ; 
the  four  oratories  constitute  the  corners  of  an  octagonal 
court,  around  which  runs  a  portico.  Basins  of  basalt  and 
of  granite,  and  sarcophagi  covered  with  figures,  stand  at 
intervals  on  the  marble  pavement ;  alone,  one  fountain 
flows  and  murmurs  in  this  sanctuary  of  ideal  form  and 
motionless  stones.  A  large  balcony  opens  out  on  the  city 
and  campagna ,  from  this  you  obtain  a  fine  view  of  the 
immense  expanse  below,  with  its  gardens,  villas,  domes, 
the  beautiful  broad  tops  of  the  Italian  pine  rising  one 
above  another  in  the  limpid  atmosphere,  rows  of  dark 
cypress  relieving  on  bright  architectural  surfaces,  and,  on 
the  horizon  a  long  chain  of  rugged  mountains  and  snow 
jteaks  penetrating  the  azure  above. 

I  returned  on  foot  behind  the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  on 
the  right  bank  of  the  Tiber.  A  greater  contrast  you 
could  not  imagine.  The  bank  consists  of  a  long  crumbling 
sandbank,  bordered  with  thorny,  neglected  hedges ,  facing 
these,  on  the  other  side,  is  a  range  of  crazy  old  tenements 
wretched  time-worn  barracks,  stained  with  infiltration* 


THE   BANKS   OP  THE   TIBER.  151 

of  water  and  the  contact  of  human  vermin,  some 
plunging  their  corroded  foundations  into  the  stream,  and 
others  with  a  small  court  between  them  filled  with 
crdure  and  garbage.  You  cannot  imagine  the  condition  of 
walls  exposed  for  a  hundred  years  to  the  inclemencies  of 
the  weather  and  the  abuses  of  their  occupants.  Such 
a  bordering  as  this  resembles  the  tattered  skirts  of  a 
eorcercss's  garb,  or  some  other  ragged  and  infected 
garment.  The  Tiber  rolls  along,  yellow  and  slimy, 
between  a  desert  and  a  mass  of  corruption. 

Picturesqueness,  however,  and  something  of  interest  is 
never  wanting.  Here  and  there  a  ruin  of  an  old  tower 
plunges  perpendicularly  into  the  waves;  a  square  under  a 
church  shows  its  stairways  sloping  into  the  water,  with 
boats  moored  to  them.  You  are  reminded  of  the  old 
engravings  exposed  for  sale  on  our  quays,  half-obliterated 
by  rain,  and  torn  and  rumpled,  but  representing  some 
grand  bit  of  masonry  or  landscape  just  visible  in  a 
apace  lying  between  a  hole  and  two  spots  of  mud. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  FANTHKON,  AND  THE  BATHS  OP  CAKACALLA. 

ONE  might  remain  here  three  or  four  years,  and  still  be 
always  learning.  It  is  the  greatest  museum  in  the  world; 
all  centuries  have  contributed  something  to  it, — what  can 
one  see  of  it  in  a  month  ?  A  man  with  time  to  study, 
and  who  knew  how  to  observe,  would  obtain  here  in  a 
column,  a  tomb,  a  triumphal  arch,  an  aqueduct,  and  espe- 
cially in  this  palace  of  the  Caesars,  now  being  disinterred, 
the  means  for  recomposing  imperial  Rome.  I  visit  three 
or  four  ruins,  and  try  to  trace  out  the  meaning  of  these 
fragments. 

The  Pantheon  of  Agrippa  is  situated  on  a  dirty  and 
quaint  old  square,  a  station  for  miserable  cabs,  with  theii 
drivers  ever  on  the  look-out  for  strangers.  The  refuse 
of  vegetable  stalls  is  strewed  about  on  the  black  pavement, 
and  troops  of  peasants  in  long  gaiters  and  in  sheepskins 
stand  there  motionless,  watching  you  with  their  brilliant 
black  eyes.  The  poor  temple  itself  has  suffered  all  that 
an  edifice  can  suffer ;  modern  structures  have  been  plas- 
tered against  its  back  and  sides,  and  it  is  flanked  with  two 
ridiculous  steeples;  it  has  been  robbed  of  its  bronze 
beams  and  nails  in  order  to  make  the  columns  of  the 
baldichino  of  St.  Peter's ;  and  for  a  long  time  rickety 
hovels  so  incrusted  and  surrounded  its  columns  as  to 
obstruct  its  portico,  while  the  soil,  so  encumbered  the 
entrance,  that  one  had  to  ascend  instead  of  descend,  in 
order  to  reach  its  interior.  Even  as  it  is  to-d::y,  in  good 


THE   PANTHEON  133 

repair,  its  begrimed  surface,  its  fissures  and  mutilations, 
and  the  half-effaced  inscription  of  its  architrave,  give  it  a 
maimed  and  invalid  appearance.  In  spite  of  all  this,  its 
entrance  is  grand  and  imposing ;  the  eight  enormous 
Corinthian  columns  of  the  portico,  the  massive  pilasters, 
so  cdmmanding,  the  cross-pieces  of  the  entablature,  and 
the  bronze  doors,  all  declare  a  magnificence  characteristic 
of  a  nation  of  conquerors  and  rulers.  Our  Pantheon 
compared  with  this  seems  mean  ;  and  when,  after  a  half- 
hour's  contemplation  of  it,  you  abstract  its  mouldiness  and 
degradation,  and  divorce  it  from  its  modern  dilapidated 
surroundings  ;  when  the  imagination  pictures  to  itself  the 
white  glittering  edifice  with  its  fresh  marble,  and  the 
subdued  lustre  of  its  bronze  tiles  and  beams,  and  the 
bronze  bas-reliefs  adorning  its  pediment,  as  it  appeared 
in  the  time  of  Agrippa,  when,  after  the  establishment 
of  universal  peace,  he  dedicated  it  to  all  the  gods,  then 
do  you  figure  to  yourself  with  admiration  the  triumph 
of  Augustus  which  this  fete  completed,  a  reconciled  sub- 
missive universe,  the  splendour  of  a  perfected  empire, 
and  you  listen  to  the  solemn  melopceia  of  Virgil's  verses 
celebrating  the  glory  of  this  great  day.  *  Borne  along  in 
a  triple  triumph  within  the  walls  of  Rome,  Augustus  dedi- 
cated to  the  gods  of  Italy  an  immortal  offering  of  three  hun- 
dred grand  temples  distributed  throughout  the  city.  The 
streets  shook  with  the  acclamations,  the  games,  and  the 
joy  of  an  entire  people.  In  the  temples  were  choruses  of 
women,  and  at  all  the  altars;  before  the  altars  the 
immolated  bulls  strewed  the  ground.  He  himself,  seated 
on  the  marble  threshold  of  bright  Phoebus,  passes  in 
review  the  gifts  of  the  people,  and  attaches  them  to  mag- 
nificent columns ;  the  vanquished  nations  approach  in 
long  files,  as  diverse  in  arms  and  in  mind  as  in  language : 
Nomades,  Africans  with  pendant  robes,  Leleges,  Cares, 
the  Gelons  armed  with  darts,  the  Morins,  the  most  remote 


134  ROME. 

of  men,  the  Dahes  indomitable.  The  Euphrates  flowg 
placidly,  and  the  Araxus  trembles  under  the  bridge  that 
has  overcome  it.' 

You  enter  the  temple  under  the  lofty  cupola  which 
expands  in  every  sense  like  an  interior  firmament;  trie 
light  descends  magnificently  from  the  single  aperture  in 
the  top,  its  vivid  brightness  accompanied  with  cool 
shadows  and  a  transparent  veil  of  floating  particles 
slowly  passing  before  the  curves  of  the  arch.  All 
around  are  the  chapels  of  the  ancient  gods,  each  between 
columns,  and  ranged  along  the  circular  walls ;  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  rotunda  diminishes  them,  and,  thus  united  and 
reduced,  they  live  subject  to  the  hospitality  and  majesty 
of  the  Roman  people,  the  sole  divinity  that  subsists 
in  a  conquered  universe.  Such  is  the  impression  this 
architecture  makes  on  you.  It  is  not  simple,  like  a 
Greek  temple,  it  does  not  correspond  to  a  primitive 
sentiment  like  the  Greek  religion ;  it  indicates  an  ad- 
vanced civilisation,  a  studied  art,  a  scientifically  culti- 
vated intelligence.  It  aims  at  grandeur,  and  to  excite 
admiration  and  astonishment ;  it  forms  part  of  a  system 
of  government,  and  completes  a  spectacle ;  it  is  the  deco- 
ration of  a  fete,  which  fete  is  that  of  the  Roman  empire. 

You  pass  along  the  Forum,  and  by  its  three  triumphal 
arches,  and  the  grand  vaults  of  its  ruined  basilicas,  and 
the  vast  Colosseum.  There  were  three  or  four  besides 
this  one,  the  Circus  Maximus  among  these,  containing  four 
hundred  thousand  spectators.  In  a  naval  battle,  under 
Claudius,  nineteen  thousand  gladiators  fought  in  it;  a 
silver  triton  issuing  from  a  lake  gave  the  signal  with  its 
clarion.  Another  contained  twenty  thousand  persons. 
Musing  over  the  ideas  these  give  birth  to,  you  reach  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla,  the  most  imposing  object  after  the 
Colosseum  that  one  sees  in  Rome. 

These  colossal  structures  are  so  many  signs  of  their 


THE  PANTHEON.  IS* 

times.  Imperial  Rome  plundered  the  entire  Mediter- 
ranean basin,  Spain,  Gaul,  and  two-thirds  of  England,  for 
the  benefit  of  a  hundred  thousand  idlers.  She  amused 
them  in  the  Colosseum  with  massacres  of  beasts  and  of 
men ;  in  the  Circus  Maximus  with  combats  of  athletea 
and  with  chariot  races ;  in  the  theatre  of  Marcellus  with 
pantomimes,  plays,  and  the  pageantry  of  arms  and 
costume ;  she  provided  them  with  baths,  to  which  they 
resorted  to  gossip,  to  contemplate  statues,  to  listen  to 
declaimers,  to  keep  themselves  cool  in  the  heats  of 
summer.  All  that  had  been  then  invented  of  the  con- 
venient, agreeable,  and  beautiful,  all  that  could  be 
collected  in  the  world  that  was  curious  and  magnificent, 
was  for  them ;  the  Caesars  fed  them  and  diverted  them, 
seeking  only  to  afford  them  gratification,  and  to  obtain 
their  acclamations.  A  Eoman  of  the  middle  classes 
might  well  regard  his  emperors  as  so  many  public 
purveyors  (procuratores),  administering  his  property,  re- 
lieving him  from  troublesome  cares,  furnishing  him  at 
fair  rates,  or  for  nothing,  with  corn,  wine,  and  oil,  giving 
him  sumptuous  meals  and  w  ell-go t-up  fetes,  providing 
him  with  pictures,  statues,  pantomimists,  gladiators,  and 
lions,  resuscitating  his  blase  taste  every  morning  with 
eome  surprising  novelty,  and  even  occasionally  converting 
themselves  into  actors,  charioteers,  singers,  and  gladiators 
for  his  especial  delight.  In  order  to  lodge  this  group  of 
amateurs  in  a  way  suitable  to  its  regal  pretensions, 
architecture  invented  original  and  grand  forms.  Vast 
structures  always  indicate  some  corresponding  excess, 
some  immoderate  concentration  and  accumulation  of  the 
labour  of  humanity.  Look  at  the  Gothic  cathedrals,  the 
pyramids  of  Egypt,  Paris  of  the  present  day,  and  the 
docks  of  London  I 

On  reaching  the  end  of  a  long  line  of  narrow  streets, 
white  walls,  and  deserted  gardens,  the  great  ruin  appears, 


136  ROME. 

There  is  nothing  with  which  to  compare  its  form,  whil« 
the  line  it  describes  on  the  sky  is  unique.  No  moun- 
tains, no  hills,  no  edifices,  give  any  idea  of  it.  It 
resembles  all  these ;  it  is  a  human  structure,  which  time 
and  events  have  so  deformed  and  transformed,  as  to 
render  a  natural  production.  Rising  upward  in  the 
air,  its  moss-stained  embossed  summit  and  indented  crest 
with  its  wide  crevices,  a  red,  mournful,  decayed  mass, 
silently  reposes  in  a  shroud  of  clouds. 

You  enter,  and  it  seems  as  if  you  had  never  seen  any- 
thing in  the  world  so  grand.  The  Colosseum  itself  is 
no  approach  to  it,  so  much  do  a  multiplicity  and  irre- 
gularity of  ruins  add  to  the  vastness  of  the  vast 
enclosure.  Before  these  heaps  of  red  corroded  masonry, 
these  round  vaults  spanning  the  air  like  the  arches  of  a 
mighty  bridge  before  these  crumbling  walls,  you  wonder 
whether  an  entire  city  did  not  once  exist  there.  Fre- 
quently an  arch  has  fallen,  and  the  monstrous  mass 
that  sustained  it  still  stands  erect,  exposing  remnants  of 
staircases  and  fragments  of  arcades,  like  so  many  shape- 
less, deformed  houses.  Sometimes  it  is  cleft  in  the 
centre,  and  a  portion  appears  about  to  fall  and  roll  away, 
like  a  huge  rock.  Sections  of  wall  and  pieces  of  tottering 
arches  cling  to  it  and  dart  their  projections  threateningly 
upward  in  the  air.  The  courts  are  strewed  with  various 
fragments,  and  blocks  of  brick  welded  together  by 
the  action  of  time,  like  stones  incrusted  with  the  deposits 
of  the  sea.  Elsewhere  are  arcades  quite  intact,  piled  up 
story  upon  story,  the  bright  sky  appearing  behind  them, 
and  above,  along  the  dull  red  brickwork,  is  a  verdant 
headdress  of  plants,  waving  and  rustling  in  the  midst  of 
the  ethereal  blue. 

Here  are  mystic  depths,  wherein  the  bedewed  shade 
rolongs  itself  amongst  mysterious  shadows.  Into  these  the 


THE   BATHS   OP  CARACALLA.  187 

ivy  descends,  and  anemones,  fennel,  and  mallows  fringe  their 
brinks.  Shafts  of  columns  lie  half-buried  under  climbing 
vines  and  heaps  of  rubbish,  while  luxuriant  clover  carpeta 
the  surrounding  slopes.  Small  green  oaks,  with  round 
tops,  innumerable  green  shrubs,  and  myriads  of  gilli- 
flowers  cling  to  the  various  projections,  nestle  in  the 
hollows,  and  deck  its  crests  with  their  yellow  clusters. 
All  these  murmur  in  the  breeze,  and  the  birds  are  singing 
in  the  midst  of  the  imposing  silence, 

Next  you  distinguish  the  Pinacotheca,  as  lofty  as  a 
church  dome,  and  the  great  rotunda,  devoted  to  vapour 
baths,  and  the  enormous  hemicycles,  in  which  the  specta- 
cles were  given.  Imagine  a  club,  like  the  Athenaeum 
of  London,  a  palace  open  to  everybody  ;  this  one  being 
for  the  use  of  a  society  which,  besides  supplying  intellec- 
tual wants,  supplied  those  of  the  body ;  not  only  resorting 
to  it  to  read  books  and  the  journals,  to  contemplate  works 
of  art,  to  listen  to  poets  and  philosophers,  to  converse  and 
to  discuss,  but  also  to  swim,  to  bathe,  to  scrub,  to  per- 
spire, and  even  to  run  and  wrestle,  or,  at  all  events,  to 
enjoy  the  performances  of  those  who  did.  In  this  respect 
Rome  was  simply  Athens  enlarged.  The  same  kind  of 
life,  the  same  instincts,  the  same  habits,  the  same  plea- 
sures were  perpetuated ;  the.  difference  between  them  was 
only  one  of  proportion  and  of  time.  The  city  had  ex- 
panded so  as  to  contain  masters  by  hundreds  of  thousands, 
and  slaves  by  millions ;  but  from  Xenophon  to  Marcus 
Aurelius,  there  is  no  change  in  its  gymnastic  or  in  its 
rhetorical  education ;  their  taste  is  always  that  of 
athletes  and  orators,  and  in  this  sense  it  was  imperative 
to  cater  for  them ;  it  is  to  naked  bodies,  to  the  dilettanti 
in  style,  and  to  amateurs  of  decoration  and  conversation, 
that  all  this  appeals.  We  no  longer  have  an  idea  of  thia 
physical  pagan  existence,  this  idle,  speculative  disposiU 


138  ROME. 

tion  :  man  in  clothing  himself  and  becoming  Christian  has 
transformed  himself. 

You  ascend,  I  know  not  how  many  stories,  and,  on  the 
summit,  find  the  pavement  of  the  upper  chambers  to  con- 
eist  of  checkered  squares  of  marble ;  owing  to  the  shrubs 
and  plants  that  have  taken  root  amongst  them,  these  are 
disjoined  in  places,  a  fresh  bit  of  mosaic  sometimes  ap- 
pearing intact  on  removing  a  layer  of  earth.  Here  were 
sixteen  hundred  seats  of  polished  marble.  In  the  Batha 
of  Diocletian  there  were  places  for  three  thousand  two 
hundred  bathers.  From  this  elevation,  on  casting  your 
eyes  around,  you  see,  on  the  plain,  lines  of  ancient  aque- 
ducts radiating  in  all  directions  and  losing  themselves  in 
the  distance,  and,  on  the  side  of  Albano,  three  other  vast 
ruins,  masses  of  red  and  black  arcades,  shattered  and 
disintegrated  brick  by  brick,  and  corroded  by  time. 

You  descend  and  take  another  glance.  The  hall  of 
the  piscine  is  a  hundred  and  twenty  paces  long  ;  that  in 
which  the  bathers  disrobed  is  eighty  feet  in  height ;  the 
whole  is  covered  with  marble,  and  with  such  beautiful 
marble  that  mantel  ornaments  are  now  made  of  its  frag- 
ments. In  the  sixteenth  century  the  Farnese  Hercules 
was  discovered  here,  and  the  Torso  and  Venus  Callipygis, 
and  I  know  not  how  many  other  masterpieces ;  and  in  the 
seventeenth  century  hundreds  of  statues.  No  people, 
probably,  will  ever  again  display  the  same  luxurious 
conveniences,  the  same  diversions,  and  especially  the 
same  order  of  beauty,  as  that  which  the  Romans  dis* 
played  in  Rome. 

Here  only  can  you  comprehend  this  assertion — a 
civilisation  other  than  our  own,  other  and  different,  but  in 
its  kind  as  complete  and  as  elegant.  It  is  another 
animal,  but  equally  perfect,  like  the  mastodon,  previoui 
to  the  modern  elephant. 


THE   BATHS  OF  CABACALLA.  139 

In  one  corner,  under  shelter,  a  charming  almond- tree 
flourished,  as  rosy  and  smiling  in  its  blooming  garb  of 
blossoms  flooded  with  the  sun's  rays,  as  a  young  girl 
decked  for  a  ball,  —a  chance  seedling,  amidst  these  colossal 
walls,  dropped  into  the  corroded  skeleton  of  this  moratrooi 
foofl. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

PAtHTING — RAPHAEL,  FIRST  EXPERIENCES— DIFFERENCE  BETWEKB 
EASEL  AND  MUBAL  PAINTING — TRANSFORMATION  OF  THE  HUMAN 
MIND  IN  THE  INTERVAL  BETWEEN  THE  SIXTEENTH  AND 
NINETEENTH  CENTURIES — THE  NUDE  OB  DRAPED  FIGURE  THE 
CENTRE  OF  ART  IN  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 

ROME,  March  15. — We  will  now  speak  of  your  Raphael; 
as  you  like  honest  impressions,  I  will  give  you  mine  in 
their  order  and  diversity. 

How  many  times  have  we  not  discussed  Raphael 
over  his  original  drawings  and  over  engravings  I 
Here  are  his  greatest  productions.  When  your  im- 
pressions begin  to  shape  themselves  into  ideas,  you 
make  a  list  of  the  places  where  his  pictures  may  be 
found.  You  pass  from  fresco  to  canvass  and  from  gallery 
to  church ;  you  return  to  these  again  and  again,  and  read 
his  life  and  the  lives  of  his  contemporaries  and  masters.  It 
is  a  labour  such  as  you  give  to  a  Petrarch  or  a  Sophocles; 
all  grand  objects  a  little  remote  correspond  to  sentiments 
we  no  longer  possess. 

The  first  aspect  is  singular; — you  have  just  entered  the 
court  of  the  Vatican ;  you  have  seen  a  pile  of  buildings, 
and,  overhead,  a  series  of  window-sashes  giving  to  the 
edifice  the  appearance  of  a  vast  conservatory.  With  this 
impression  in  your  head,  you  mount  innumerable  steps,  and 
at  the  landing-place  a  polite,  obsequious  '  Swiss '  pockets 
your  two  pauls  with  a  smile  of  thanks*  You  now  stand 
in  a  spacious  hall  encumbered  with  paintings.  Which 
will  you  look  at  first?  Here  is  the  « Battle  of  Constantine,' 


RAPHAEL;   FIRST   EXPERIENCES.  141 

designed  by  Raphael  and  executed  by  Julio  Romano— 
in  brickdust,  I  suppose ;  probably,  too,  it  has  been  wet 
by  the  rain,  and  the  colour  has  disappeared  in  places 
You  pass  on  through  a  long  glazed  portico,  where  the 
arabesques  of  Raphael  ought  to  be  ;  but  you  no  longer 
find  them,  the  faint  traces  of  them  still  existing,  showing 
that  they  were  there  once,  but  likewise  showing  that  the 
walls  have  been  pretty  well  scratched  by  somebody.  You 
throw  your  head  back,  and,  on  the  ceiling,  observe  the 
fifty-two  biblical  subjects  called  the  Loggia  of  Raphael ; 
five  or  six  of  these  remain  entire,  while  the  rest  appear  to 
have  been  brushed  away  with  a  long-handled  broom. 
Besides,  was  it  worth  while,  in  making  masterpieces,  to 
make  them  so  small  and  place  them  so  high,  and  reduce 
them  to  the  service  of  the  panels  of  a  ceiling  ? 
Evidently,  in  the  architect's  mind  these  were  simply 
accessories,  a  decorative  motive  for  a  promenade :  when 
the  Pope  came  here,  after  dinner,  for  fresh  air,  he  could 
see  at  regular  intervals  a  group  or  a  torso,  if  by  chance 
he  raised  his  head.  You  return  and  make  your  first 
circuit  of  the  four  celebrated  stanze  of  Raphael.  These 
were  the  apartments  of  Julius  II.  :  here  the  Pope  trans- 
acted business,  and  in  one  of  them  signed  his  briefs.  The 
painter  here  is  secondary ;  the  apartment  was  not  made  for 
his  work,  but  it  for  the  apartment.  The  light  is  dim,  and 
half  of  the  frescoes  remain  in  shadow.  The  ceiling  is 
overcharged,  the  subjects  stiile  each  other.  The  colouring 
is  faded  out,  and  cracks  cover  half  of  the  forms  and  heads. 
The  faces  are  mottled  with  the  pallid  spots  of  dampness, 
also  the  drapery  and  architecture  ;  the  skies  are  no  longer 
brilliant,  but  are  covered  with  the  leprous  stains  of 
mould,  while  the  goddesses  under  the  arch  are  peeling  off. 
And  yet  strangers  with  guide-book  in  hand  comment 
loudly  and  freely,  and  copyists  are  shifting  their  ladders 
alont  the  floor.  Imagine,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the 


142  KOME. 

unfortunate  visitor  twisting  his  neck  off  in  manoeuvring 
an  opera-glass  ! 

Nineteen  out  of  twenty  of  those  who  visit  this  place 
must  certainly  be  disenchanted,  and  exclaim,  with  open 
mouth,  '  Is  this  all  ? '  It  is  with  these  frescoes  as  with 
the  mutilated  texts  of  Sophocles  and  Homer;  give  a 
thirteenth-century  manuscript  to  an  ordinary  reader,  and 
do  you  suppose  that  he  can  decipher  it  ?  If  he  is  honest, 
he  will  not  comprehend  your  admiration  of  it,  and  will 
gladly  exchange  it  for  one  of  Dickens's  romances,  or  a  lied 
by  Heine.  I,  too,  comprehend  that  I  do  not  compre- 
hend, and  that  two  or  three  visits  must  be  made  to  enable 
me  to  make  the  necessary  abstractions  and  restorations. 
Meanwhile,  I  am  going  to  say  what  strikes  me  disagreeably, 
and  that  is  that  all  these  figures  pose. 

I  have  just  been  into  the  upper  story  to  see  the 
celebrated  *  Transfiguration,'  which  is  pronounced  the 
great  masterpiece  of  art.  Is  there  in  the  world  a 
more  mystical  subject  than  this  for  a  picture  ?  Heaven 
itself  opening,  beatified  beings  appearing,  forms  of  flesh 
and  blood  freed  from  gross  terrestrial  conditions  and 
ascending  into  glory  and  splendour;  the  delirium  and 
sublimity  of  ecstacy,  a  veritable  miracle,  a  vision  like  that 
of  Dante  when  he  rose  into  Paradise  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  beaming  orbs  of  Beatrice !  The  appari- 
tion of  angels  in  Rembrandt's  picture  came  into  my  mind, 
that  rose  of  mysterious  figures  flashing  out  suddenly 
in  the  black  night,  terrifying  the  flocks  and  proclaiming 
to  the  shepherds  that  a  Saviour  was  born.  The  Hollander 
in  his  misty  atmosphere  felt  these  evangelical  terrors 
and  these  raptures ;  he  saw.  and  he  thrilled  to  the  cer  tre 
of  his  being  with  the  poignant  sentiment  of  life  and  of 
truth ;  things,  in  fine,  occurred  as  he  shows  them  to  us ; 
before  his  picture  we  believe  because  we  witness  the 
occurrence.  Is  Raphael  a  believer  in  his  miracle  ?  He 


DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  EASEL  AND  MURAL  PAINTING.  148 

believes,  first  of  all,  that  he  must  select  and  compose  hia 
attitudes.  That  handsome  young  woman  on  her  knees 
thinks  how  she  shall  hold  her  arms;  the  three  salient 
muscles  of  the  left  arm  form  an  agreeable  line ;  the  fall 
of  the  loins  and  the  tension  of  the  entire  frame  from  the 
back  to  the  heel  form  precisely  the  pose  that  would  be 
arranged  in  a  studio.  The  figure  with  a  book  thinks  how 
he  shall  show  a  well-drawn  foot ;  another  lifting  an  arm, 
and  that  next  him,  holding  the  possessed  child,  gesticulate 
like  actors.  And  what  of  those  apostles  who  allow  them- 
gelves  to  fall  into  such  a  symmetrical  group?  Moses  and 
Elias  in  glory,  on  either  side  of  Christ,  are  swimmers 
'  striking  out/  Christ  himself,  with  his  feet  so  nicely 
drawn,  the  large  toes  separated  from  the  others,  is  simply 
a  fine  figure ;  his  insteps  and  elbows  are  of  more  conse 
quence  to  him  than  his  divinity. 

This  is  not  impotence  but  system,  or  rather  instinct,  for 
at  that  time  there  was  no  such  thing  as  system.  I  have 
before  my  eyes  a  celebrated  engraving  of  the  '  Massacre 
of  the  Innocents.'  I  am  confident  that  his  innocents  are 
in  no  danger.  The  tall  fellow  on  the  left,  displaying  hia 
pectoral  muscles,  and  that  in  the  centre  who  exposes  the 
hollow  of  his  spine,  are  not  going  to  kill  the  little  creatures 
they  grasp.  My  good  fellows,  you  are  healthy  and  good- 
looking,  and  know  how  to  display  your  muscles,  hut 
you  are  not  up  to  your  profession !  What  poor  execu- 
tioners you  are  for  a  king  like  Herod !  As  for  the 
mothers,  they  do  not  love  their  offspring ;  they  are  tran- 
quilly making  their  escape;  if  they  make  any  noise 
they  do  it  moderately,  lest  they  should  disturb  the  har- 
mony of  their  attitudes  ;  both  mothers  and  executioners 
form  an  assembly  of  eakm  figurants,  framed  in  by  a  bridge 
extending  between  two  buildings.  The  same  thing 
struck  me  at  Hampton  Court  in  the  famous  cartoons ; 
the  Apostles  convicting  Ananias  advance  to  the  edge  of 


144  HOME. 

the  platform,  as  a  chorus  of  opera-singers  advance  up  to 
the  footlights  in  the  fifth  act. 

On  descending,  you  place  yourself  again  before  the 
frescoes  of  the  stanze,  for  instance,  befsre  the  «  Conflagra- 
tion of  Borgo.'  What  a  poor  conflagration,  and  how  little  in 
it  of  the  terrible  !  Fourteen  figures  kneeling  on  a  stair- 
case constitute  a  crowd  ;  there  is  no  danger  of  these  people 
crushing  each  other,  for  their  motions  show  that  they  are 
in  no  haste.  In  fact,  the  fire  is  not  burning ;  how  could  it 
burn  without  wood  to  consume,  stifled  as  it  is  by  stone 
architecture  ?  There  is  no  conflagration  here — only  two 
rows  of  columns,  broad  steps,  a  palace  in  the  background, 
and  groups  spread  here  and  there  similar  to  the  peasants, 
who  at  this  moment  are  lying  or  seated  on  the  steps  of 
St.  Peter's.  The  principal  figure  is  a  well-fed  young 
man  suspended  by  his  two  arms,  and  who  finds  time  to 
practise  gymnastics.  A  father,  on  tiptoe,  receives  an 
infant,  which  its  mother  hands  to  him  from  the  top  of  a 
wall, — they  are  about  as  uneasy  as  if  they  were  handling 
a  basket  of  vegetables.  A  man  carries  off  his  father  on 
his  shoulders  ;  his  naked  son  is  by  his  side,  and  the  wife 
follows,  —  antique  sculpture,  ^iEneas  bearing  Anchises, 
with  Ascanias  and  Creusa.  Two  females  carry  vases 
and  are  shrieking, — the  caryatides  of  a  Greek  temple 
would  display  the  same  action.  I  can  only  regard  this 
work  as  a  painted  bas-relief,  and  a  complement  to  the 
architecture. 

Engrossed  by  this  idea,  dwelling  on  it,  or  rathei 
allowing  it  to  develop  itself,  it  bears  fruit.  Why,  indeed, 
should  not  frescoes  be  a  complement  of  architecture  ?  la 
it  not  a  mistake  to  consider  them  wholly  by  themselves  ? 
We  must  place  ourselves  at  the  same  point  of  view  as  the 
painter  in  order  to  enter  into  his  ideas  ;  and  certainly  sue? 
was  the  point  of  view  of  Raphael.  The  *  Confhgratior 
of  Borgo  *  is  comprehended  within  the  space  of  an  orna- 
mental arc  which  had  to  be  filled  up.  The  «  Parnasus 


DIFfBBENCE  BETWEEN"  EASEL  AND  MUEAL  PAINTING.    144 

and  '  the  Deliverance  of  St.  Peter '  surmount,  one  a  door 
Aiid  the  other  a  window,  and  their  position  imposes  upon 
them  their  shape.  These  paintings  are  not  appended  to 
but  form  a  portion  of  the  edifice,  and  cover  it  as  a  skin 
covers  the  body.  Why,  then,  belonging  to  the  edifice 
should  they  not  be  architectural?  There  is  an  innate 
logic  in  all  these  grea:  works ;  it  is  for  me  to  forget  my 
modern  education  in  order  to  arrive  at  its  meaning. 

At  the  present  day  we  view  pictures  in  exhibitions,  and 
each  picture  exists  for  itself ;  in  the  artist's  mind  it  is  a 
complete  thing  and  stands  apart,  and,  as  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned, it  may  be  hung  anywhere.  The  painter  has 
abstracted  from  nature  or  from  history  a  landscape  or  a 
scene,  the  interest  of  which  to  him  is  his  chief  object ;  in 
this  respect  he  acts  like  a  novelist  or  a  dramatist ;  he 
maintains  a  dialogue  with  us  by  ourselves.  He  is  bound  to 
be  veracious  and  dramatic ;  if  he  shows  us  a  battle  let  it, 
be  the  *  Barricades '  of  Delacroix  ;  if  a  Christ  consoling 
the  poor  in  heart,  let  it  be  the  divine  Christ  of  the  weak 
and  suffering  by  Rembrandt,  with  its  mellow  halo  and 
mournful  reflections  vanishing  in  misty  obscurity.  But 
in  decorative  art  the  motive  is  quite  different,  and  the 
picture  changes  with  the  motive.  Here  is  the  arc  of  a 
window  with  a  simple,  grave  curve ;  the  line  is  a  noble 
one,  and  a  border  of  ornamentation  accompanies  its 
beautiful  sweep.  The  two  sides,  however,  and  the  space 
above  remain  empty,  and  are  to  be  filled,  and  they  can  be 
filled  only  with  figures  as  ample  and  as  grave  as  the 
architecture  ;  personages  abandoned  to  the  fury  of  human 
passion  would  be  incongruous;  the  license  of  natural 
groupings  cannot  be  imitated  here.  It  is  necessary  to 
compose  and  arrange  the  figures  according  to  the  height  of 
the  panel,  some  either  stooping  or  infantile  introduced  at 
the  top  of  the  arc,  and  others  erect  or  adult,  along  its  sides, 
The  composition  is  not  isolated ;  it  is  the  complement  of 


146  ROME. 

the  window,  and  proceeds,  like  the  entire  palace,  from 
a  unique  idea.  A  vast  royal  edifice  is  naturally  grand 
and  calm,  and  it  imposes  its  grandeur  and  calmness  on  ita 
decoration,  that  is  to  say,  on  its  paintings. 

But  especially  must  it  be  kept  in  mind  that  the  spec- 
tator of  that  day  was  not  the  spectator  of  our  day.  For 
the  pas'  three  hundred  years  our  brains  have  been  em- 
ployed on  reasonings  and  on  moral  distinctions  ;  we  have 
become  critics  and  observers  of  internal  phenomena.  Shut 
up  in  our  apartments,  incased  in  our  black  coats,  and  well 
protected  by  a  police,  we  have  neglected  corporeal  life  and 
bodily  exercise  ;  we  conform  to  the  drawing-room  standard, 
and  seek  pleasure  in  conversation  and  in  the  cultivation 
of  our  intellects ;  we  study  niceties  of  social  intercourse 
and  peculiarities  of  character ;  we  read  and  comment  on  his- 
torians and  novelists  by  hundreds ;  we  have  loaded  our- 
selves down  with  literature.  The  human  mind  is  barren 
of  imagery  and  overflowing  with  ideas  ;  what  it  compre- 
hends, and  what  affects  it  at  present  in  painting,  is  the 
human  tragedy  or  the  real  life  of  which  it  obtains  glimpses 
in  the  world  of  society  or  among  rural  scenes,  as  in  the 
*  Larmoyeur'  of  Ary  SchefFer,  the  *  Mare  au  Soleil '  of 
D6camps,  and  '  L'Eveque  de  Liege,'  by  Delacroix.  In 
these  we  find  as  in  a  poem  the  confessions  of  an  impas- 
sioned soul,  a  sort  of  judgment  on  human  life ;  what  we 
Beck  through  the  medium  of  colour  and  form  is  sentiments. 
In  those  days  they  sought  for  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
current  of  actual  life,  which  interests  us  in  inward  emotion 
and  in  its  outward  expression,  interested  them  in  the  nude 
figure  and  in  the  movements  of  the  animal  form.  We 
have  only  to  read  Cellini,  the  correspondence  of  Aretino, 
and  the  historians  of  that  era,  in  order  to  see  how  corporeal 
and  perilous  life  was ;  how  man  took  justice  in  his  own 
hands,  how  he  was  assaulted  on  his  promenades  and  on 
his  journeys,  how  he  was  forced  to  keep  his  hand  con- 


TRANSFORMATION   OF   THE   HUMAN  MIND.  147 

Btantly  on  his  sword  or  arquebuss,  and  never  to  leave  his 
house  without  a  giacco  or  poignard.  The  great  assassinated 
each  other  with  impunity,  and  even  in  their  palaces  shared 
with  the  vulgar  the  coarsest  of  manners.  Pope  Julius, 
one  day  irritated  at  Michael  Angelo,  thrashed  one  of  his 
prelates  because  he  attempted  to  interfere.  Who  of  the 
present  day  comprehends  the  action  of  a  muscle  except  a 
surgeon  or  an  artist?  Then  everybody  did;  not  only 
lords  but  louts,  the  man  of  rank  as  well  as  the  most  in- 
significant rustic.  The  practice  of  interchanging  blows 
with  sword  and  fist,  of  jumping,  of  playing  at  tennis,  and 
of  tilting,  and  the  necessity  of  being  strong  and  agile, 
abundantly  supplied  the  imagination  with  every  variety  of 
form  and  attitude.  A  little  nude  cupid  viewed  from  the 
soles  of  his  feet  and  darting  off  with  his  caduceus,  or  a 
vigorous  youth  throwing  himself  back  upon  his  haunches, 
awoke  ideas  as  familiar  then  as  nowadays  any  intriguer  or 
financier  or  woman  of  the  world  portrayed  by  Balzac. 
On  seeing  them  the  spectator  imitated  their  action  sympa- 
thetically, for  it  is  sympathy,  or  involuntary  semi-imitation, 
which  renders  the  work  of  art  possible ;  without  this  it  is 
not  understood,  not  born.  The  public  must  imagine  the 
object  without  an  effort;  it  must  figure  to  itself  in- 
stantaneously its  antecedents,  accompaniments,  and  con- 
sequences. Always  when  an  art  predominates  the  con- 
temporary mind  contains  its  essential  elements ;  whether, 
as  in  the  arts  of  poetry  and  music,  these  consist  of  ideas  or 
of  sentiments ;  or,  as  in  sculpture  and  painting,  they  consist 
of  colours  or  of  forms.  Everywhere  art  and  intelligence 
encounter  each  other,  and  this  is  why  the  first  expresses 
the  second  and  the  second  produces  the  first.  Hence  it 
we  find  in  the  Italy  of  that  period  a  revival  of  pagan  art 
it  is  because  there  was  a  revival  of  pagan  manners  and 
norals.  Caesar  Borgia,  on  capturing  a  certain  town  in  the 
'cingdom  of  Naples,  reserved  to  himself  forty  of  its  most 


148  ROME. 

beautiful  women.  Burchard,  the  pope's  cameriere,  de« 
scribes  certain  fetes  somewhat  like  those  given  in  the 
time  of  Cato  in  the  theatres  of  Rome.  With  the  senti- 
ment of  the  nude,  with  the  exercise  of  the  muscles  and 
the  expansion  of  physical  activity,  the  love  of  and  worship 
of  the  human  form  appeared  a  second  time. 

All  Italian  art  turns  upon  this  idea,  namely,  the  resus 
citation  of  the  naked  figure ;  the  rest  is  simply  pieparation, 
development,  variety,  alteration,  or  decline.  Some,  like  the 
Venetians,  display  its  grandeur  and  freedom  of  movement, 
its  magnificence  and  voluptuousness ;  others,  like  Coreg- 
gio,  its  exquisite  sweetness  and  grace ,  others,  like  the 
Bolognese,  its  dramatic  interest ;  others,  like  Caravaggio, 
its  coarse  striking  reality,  all  in  short,  caring  for  nothing 
beyond  the  truthfulness,  grace,  action,  voluptuousness  and 
magnificence  of  a  fine  form,  naked  or  draped,  raising  an 
arm  or  a  leg.  If  groups  exist  it  is  to  complete  this  idea, 
to  oppose  one  form  to  another,  to  balance  one  sensation  by 
a  similar  one.  When  landscape  comes  it  simply  serves 
as  a  background  and  accessory,  and  is  as  subordinate  as 
moral  expression  on  the  countenance  or  historical  accuracy 
in  the  subject.  The  question  is,  do  you  feel  interested  in 
expanded  muscles  moving  a  shoulder  and  throwing  back 
the  body  bow-like  on  the  opposite  thigh  ?  It  is  within  thia 
limited  circle  that  the  imagination  of  the  great  artists  of 
that  day  wrought,  and  in  the  centre  of  it  you  find  Raphael 

This  becomes  still  more  apparent  on  reading  their  lives 
by  VasarL  The  artists  of  that  period  are  mechanics  and 
manufacturers  employing  apprentices.  A  pupil  does  not 
pass  through  college  and  fill  his  mind  with  literature  and 
general  ideas,  but  goes  at  once  into  a  studio  and  works. 
Some  character,  naked  or  draped,  is  the  form  into  which  all 
his  sentiments  are  cast.  Raphael's  education  was  like  that 
of  other  artists.  Vasari  cites  his  youthful  performances, 
which  are  nothing  but  Madonnas,  always  Madonnas 


THE  NUDE  FIGURE  AGAIN  THE  CENTRE  OP  AllT.       149 

His  master  Perugino,  was  a  saint  manufacturer ;  he  might 
have  displayed  this  title  on  a  signboard.  Even  his  own 
sainls  are  plain  altar  saints,  poorly  emancipated  from  the 
consecrated  pose:  they  display  but  little  animation,  and 
when  in  groups  of  three  or  four  each  appears  as  if  alone. 
They  are  objects  of  devotion  quite  as  much  as  works  cf 
art ;  people  kneel  before  them  and  implore  their  favour ; 
they  are  not  yet  exclusively  painted  to  please  the  eye, 
Raphael  is  to  pass  years  in  this  school,  studying  the 
position  of  an  arm,  the  folds  of  stuffs  of  gold,  and  a 
tranquil  meditative  countenance,  before  he  goes  to 
Florence  to  contemplate  forms  of  greater  amplitude  and 
greater  freedom  of  action.  Such  a  culture  as  this  is  to 
concentrate  all  his  faculties  on  one  point ;  all  the  vague 
aspirations,  all  the  sublime  and  touching  reveries  which 
occupy  the  leisure  hours  of  a  man  of  genius,  are  to  run  in 
the  direction  of  contour  and  action ;  he  is  to  think 
through  forms  as  wo  think  through  phrases. 


CHAPTER  VI 


RAPHAEL  led  a  singularly  noble,  happy  life,  and  this  raw 
order  of  happiness  is  perceptible  in  all  his  works.  The 
ordinary  trials  of  artists,  their  wasted  hopes  and  the  pangs 
of  wounded  pride,  were  unknown  to  him.  He  was 
not  a  victim  to  poverty,  humiliation,  or  neglect.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-five  he  found  himself  without  an  effort  first 
among  the  artists  of  his  time ;  his  uncle  Bramante  spared 
him  all  intrigue  and  all  solicitation.  On  seeing  his  first 
fresco  the  Pope  caused  others  to  be  effaced,  and  ordered 
that  the  entire  decoration  of  his  apartments  should  be  en- 
trusted to  his  hand.  But  one  rival  was  opposed  to  him, 
Michael  Angelo,  whom  so  far  from  envying  Raphael 
honoured  with  as  much  of  admiration  as  respect.  His 
letters  indicate  the  modesty  and  serenity  of  his  nature. 
He  was  exceedingly  amiable  and  exceedingly  beloved; 
the  great  protected  and  welcomed  him,  and  his  pupils 
formed  around  him  a  concourse  of  admirers  and  comrades. 
He  had  not  to  contend  with  man  nor  with  his  own  heart. 
Love  does  not  seem  to  have  ruffled  his  spirit,  this  passion 
in  him  never  being  accompanied  with  either  sorrow  or 
torment.  Unlike  most  painters  he  was  not  compelled  to 
bring  forth  his  conceptions  in  painful  travail,  but  produced 
them  as  a  fine  tree  produces  its  fruit;  the  vitality  of  the  tree 
was  great  and  its  culture  perfect ;  inspiration  flowed  natu- 
ally  and  the  hand  executed  without  difficulty.  Finally, 


RAPHAEL'S   EAKLY  WORKS.  151 

the  imagery  in  which  he  most  delighted  seemed  ex- 
pressly designed  to  maintain  his  spirit  in  repose.  He  had 
passed  his  early  youth  among  the  Madonnas  of  Perugino, 
pious,  gentle  maidens  of  virgin  innocence  and  infantile 
grace,  but  healthy  and  untouched  by  the  mystic  fever  of 
the  middle  ages.  He  then  contemplated  the  noble  forms 
and  free  spirit  of  antiquity,  the  placid  joyousness  of  tha* 
extinct  world  the  fragments  of  which  were  but  just  ex 
humed.  At  length  from  these  two  types  he  obtained  an 
ideal  of  his  own,  and  his  mind  wandered  through  a  world 
animated  with  vigorous  impulses,  one  that  expanded 
like  the  antique  city  with  joyousness  and  youthful 
energy,  but  over  which  the  purity,  candour,  and  benefi- 
cence of  a  new  inspiration  spread  an  unknown  charm ;  it 
seemed  to  be  a  garden,  the  plants  of  which,  quickened  by 
pagan  impulse,  produced  half-Christian  flowers  that 
bloomed  with  a  more  diffident  and  a  sweeter  smile. 

I  can  now  examine  his  works,  and  first  the  *  Madonna  de 
Foligno,'  in  the  Vatican.  You  are  at  once  impressed  with 
the  meek  and  modest  air  of  the  Virgin,  the  timidity  with 
which  she  touches  the  blue  girdle  of  her  infant,  and  the 
charming  effect  of  the  gilded  border  of  her  red  robe.  In  all 
his  early  works,  and  in  almost  all  of  his  Madonnas,  he  has 
preserved  some  souvenir  of  what  he  felt  at  Perugia  and 
at  Assissi,  where  he  was  surrounded  by  simple  traditions  of 
spiritual  love  and  felicity.  The  young  girls  he  paints 
are  youthful  communicants  possessing  still  undeveloped 
souls ;  religion,  in  covering  them  with  her  wings,  has 
retarded  their  growth;  they  are  women  in  form  but 
children  in  thought.  To  find  similar  expression  now- 
adays we  must  seek  for  it  in  the  innocent  features  of 
nuns  immured  in  convents  from  infancy,  and  never  brought 
in  contact  with  the  world.  It  is  evident  that  he  studied 
lovingly  and  carefully,  with  all  the  delicate  sentiment  of  a 
fresh  young  heart,  the  refined  curves  of  the  nose,  the  fine 


152  ROME. 

modelling  of  small  mouths  and  ears,  and  the  reflections 
of  light  on  soft  auburn  tresses.  An  infant's  blooming 
smile  charmed  him,  and  a  thigh  like  that  which  so  gently 
presses  against  that  belly.  Only  a  mother  can  appre- 
ciate the  tender  complacency  with  which  the  eye  dwells 
on  beauties  like  these  !  The  painter  is  another  Petrarch, 
musing  over  his  reveries  and  unweariedly  expressing  them. 
Sonnet  after  sonnet,  he  makes  fifty  on  the  same  face,  and 
passes  weeks  in  purifying  verses  in  which  he  deposits  his 
secret  joy.  He  has  no  need  of  action  or  of  noisy  excite- 
ment ;  he  does  not  aim  at  effect,  and  is  insensible  to  the 
shock  of  surrounding  circumstances.  He  is  not  a  comba- 
tant like  Michael  Angelo,  nor  a  voluptuary  like  his  con- 
temporaries, but  a  charming  dreamer  appearing  just  at  the 
time  when  the  world  knew  how  to  fashion  the  human  form. 
Nowhere  is  this  delicacy  of  feeling  more  apparent  than 
in  the  '  Descent  from  the  Cross'  in  the  Borghese  palace. 
Raphael  was  twenty-three  years  of  age  when  he  executed 
this  work,  and  approaching  but  not  yet  entered  on  the 
period  in  which  he  painted  his  frescoes.  He  has  already 
got  beyond  the  cold  mannerism  of  Perugino,  and  begun  to 
animate  his  figures,  although  with  a  sort  of  timidity  and 
some  traces  of.  stiffness.  On  both  sides  of  the  corpse  are 
groups  balancing  each  other,  three  men  on  the  left,  and 
four  females  on  the  right,  in  attitudes  already  varied  and 
quite  beautiful.  The  freshness  of  creative  power  glows 
in  this  work  like  the  dawn.  Not  that  the  picture  is 
affecting,  as  Vasari  insists;  one  must  go  to  Delacroix 
for  the  despairing  mother  over  a  corpse,  the  veritable 
funereal  bier,  the  deep  grief  of  nature,  the  confused  folds 
of  a  red  mantle  in  tragic  contrast  with  the  lugubrious  tints 
of  a  purple  background.  The  conspicuous  feature  here 
is  a  rich,  blooming  adolescence ;  nothing  can  be  finer  than 
the  noble  young  man  who  bends  backward  in  order  to 
support  the  corpse,  a  sort  of  Greek  ephebos  with  the  red 


HIS  LOVE  OP  THE  NUDE  FIGURE.  153 

cnemide  heightened  in  effect  by  a  bordering  of  gold; 
nothing  more  fascinating  than  the  young  woman  with 
braided  tresses  who,  half-stooping,  extends  her  arms  to 
the  afflicted  mother  in  order  to  sustain  her.  These  figures 
are  virginal  and  gaily  attired  as  if  for  a  fete,  and  their  eyes 
beam  with  the  most  winning  gentleness.  Delicate  flowers 
here  and  there  open  their  calyxes,  and  the  horizon  is  crossed 
with  a  few  slender  trees.  A  soul  as  noble  and  graceful  as 
that  of  Mozart  is  here  budding  and  about  to  bloom. 

From  this  you  pass  to  his  pagan  works,  and  on  seeing 
his  sketches  you  enter  on  the  field  at  once.  I  have 
examined  them  at  Paris,  Oxford,  and  London.  The 
feeling  of  the  painter  is  here  caught  on  the  wing ;  you 
get  at  the  original  inspiration,  intact,  as  it  existed  in  his 
mind  before  he  had  put  it  into  shape  for  the  public.  His 
inspiration  is  wholly  pagan;  he  appreciates  the  animal 
form  as  the  ancients  did;  not  alone  pure  anatomy  of 
which  he  has  acquired  a  knowledge,  a  lifeless  form  that 
he  has  fixed  in  his  mind,  a  covering  of  drapery  which  he 
is  obliged  to  comprehend  in  order  to  represent  particular 
actions,  but  he  loves  nudity  itself,  the  vigorous  joints  of  a 
thigh,  the  superb  vitality  of  a  muscular  back,  all  that  a 
man  possesses  characteristic  of  the  athelete  and  the  racer. 
I  know  of  nothing  in  the  world  so  beautiful  as  his 
drawing  of  the  ( Marriage  of  Alexander  and  Roxana,'  a 
photograph  of  which  lies  before  me ;  I  prefer  it  to  the 
fresco  in  the  Borghese  palace,  which  I  have  just 
examined.  The  figures  are  nude,  and  you  might  imagine 
yourself  in  attendance  on  a  Greek  fete,  so  natural  is  their 
nudity,  and  so  remote  from  every  idea  of  indecency  or 
even  voluptuousness ;  the  simple  joyousness  and  charm- 
ing gaiety  of  youth,  the  healthiness  and  beauty  of  bodies 
developed  in  the  palaestrum,  are  as  prominent  here  as  in 
the  best  days  of  antiquity.  A  little  cupid  drags  a  large 
cuirass,  too  heavy  for  his  infantile  limbs;  two  others 


154  ROME. 

bear  a  lance ;  others  place  one  of  their  comrades  on  a 
buckler,  who  is  pouting  as  they  bear  him  along,  dancing 
and  capering  in  glee  and  gladness.  The  hero  advances 
as  noble  as  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  but  more  virile,  while 
no  words  can  express  the  animated  radiant  smile  of  his 
two  young  associates,  who  are  pointing  to 'the  gentle 
Roxana,  seated  and  awaiting  his  coming.  Mingled  grace 
and  goodness,  and  an  air  of  happiness  radiate  from  all 
these  heads ;  the  bodies  move  and  demean  themselves  as 
if  revelling  in  simple  existence.  That  beautiful  young 
girl  is  the  bride  of  early  days ;  neither  she  nor  her  com- 
panions need  drapery,  and  it  is  a  mistake  to  give  it  to 
them  in  the  fresco ;  they  may  remain  as  they  are  without 
immodesty ;  like  the  gods  and  heroes  of  ancient  sculptors 
they  are  pure ;  the  free  expansion  of  a  corporeal  being  is 
as  natural  with  them  as  the  blooming  of  flowers.  The 
goddesses  of  this  adolescent  world,  the  immortal  Hebe, 
and  the  serene  gods  seated  on  luminous  heights  to  which 
neither  the  brutality  of  the  seasons  nor  the  miseries  of 
human  life  can  attain,  may  here  be  recognised  a  second 
time.  They  are  also  present  in  the  '  Judgment  of  Paris,' 
as  engraved  by  Marc-Antoine.  You  might  pass  hours  in 
contemplating  the  torso  of  that  river-god  reposing  amidst 
the  reeds,  those  grave  goddesses  standing  around  the 
Bhepherd,  those  superb  nymphs  resting  so  nobly  at  the 
base  of  the  rock,  the  magnificent  shoulder  of  the  leaning 
naiad,  and  the  heroic  cavaliers,  who,  aloft  in  the  air,  res- 
train their  fiery  steeds.  It  seems  as  if  eighteen  centuries 
were  suddenly  effaced  from  history,  that  the  middle  ages 
were  simply  a  nightmare,  and  that  after  many  years  of 
gloomy,  barren  legends,  mankind  had  suddenly  awakened 
and  discovered  that  but  a  day  removed  it  from  Sophocles 
and  Phidias. 

I  visited  Santa  Maria  della  Pace,  with  its  round,  ugly, 
bulging  fa9ade;  you  enter,  however,  through  *  pretty 


THE   FOUR  SIBYLS.  155 

fittle  cloister  by  Bramarite,  hi  which  are  two  elegant 
arcades,  serving  as  promenades.  This  church  is  over- 
decorated,  like  all  the  churches  of  Rome ;  on  the  left  ia 
the  tomb  of  a  cardinal  of  the  sixteenth  century — a  meagre 
form  reclining  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  in  all 
the  tragic  sublimity  of  death  ;  sepulchres  and  gilding,  the 
two  extremes  the  best  calculated  to  excite  the  imagina- 
tion, are  here  the  dominant  attributes  of  worship.  The 
contrast  is  striking  on  seeing  the  four  Sibyls  of  Raphael 
undsr  an  arc  in  the  last  chapel  on  the  left.  They  stand, 
sit,  or  recline,  according  as  the  curve  of  the  arch  re- 
quires, while  cherubs,  presenting  them  with  parchment  to 
write  on,  complete  the  group.  Solemn,  tranquil,  elevated 
like  antique  goddesses  above  human  action,  they  are 
truly  superhuman  creations ;  a  calm  gesture  suffices — it 
is  a  complete  revelation ;  theirs  is  not  a  diffused  or  transi- 
tory being,  but  one  ever  existing  immutably  in  an  eternal 
present.  One  need  not  seek  for  illusion  here,  for  relief; 
such  are  the  apparitions  of  a  vision,  and  only  discernible 
with  closed  eyes  in  moments  of  deep,  silent  emotion. 
This  man  has  put  all  the  nobleness  of  his  heart,  all  his 
solitary  conceptions  of  sublime  and  tranquil  happiness, 
into  these  forms  and  attitudes,  into  that  fraternal  inter- 
weaving of  beautiful  arms,  which,  peacefully  extended, 
seek  each  other,  and  form  that  garland.  If  we  could  at 
any  time  banish  from  our  minds  the  sad  and  repulsive 
souvenirs  of  life,  and  could  obtain  a  passing  glance 
of  a  group  of  adolescent  women  and  children  like  these, 
we  should  be  happy  and  conceive  of  nothing  beyond. 
One  especially,  standing  and  inclining  backward,  and 
slowly  turning  her  head,  has  a  proud  savage  eye,  showing 
the  peculiar  half-divine,  half-animal  grandeur  of  primitive 
beings.  Behind  her  is  a  wrinkled,  hooded  old  woman, 
but  so  transfigured  that  she  appears  beautiful  like  the 
aged  of  the  Elysian  Fields  of  Virgil.  On  the  other  side 


156  EOME. 

sits  a  gentle  young  woman  in  the  flower  of  life,  the  full 
contour  of  her  face  expressing  the  perfection  of  goodness 
and  tranquillity. 

I  go  back  at  last  to  the  Vatican,  and  all  my  impressions 
change.  I  have  now  placed  myself  at  the  proper  stand- 
point. That  which  appeared  to  me  cold  and  artificial  is 
just  what  pleases  me.  A  germ  exists  of  which  the  icst 
is  simply  development,  and  this  is  a  sound  beautiful 
body,  solidly  and  simply  painted  in  an  attitude  manifest- 
ing the  power  and  perfection  of  its  structure.  This  alone 
we  must  seek  for ;  the  other  elements  of  art  are  subordi- 
nate. A  picture  is  like  a  rhythmical  musical  phrase, 
wherein  each  note  is  pure,  and  which  dramatic  passion 
never  so  far  modifies  as  to  introduce  discords  or  screeching. 
So  regarded,  this  or  that  action,  which  seems  a  studied 
one,  is  like  a  full  and  accurate  chord ;  I  have  to  take  it 
by  itself,  abstracting  both  subject  and  resemblance,  and 
my  eye  enjoys  it  as  the  ear  enjoys  a  rich  harmonious 
strain  of  music. 

This  crowd  of  figures  now  speak,  and  they  only  speak 
too  loudly.  There  are  too  many  of  them;  one  can  no 
longer  describe.  I  will  merely  mention  those  that  make 
the  strongest  impression  on  me. 

And  first  is  the  Loggia  of  the  Vatican,  and  in  the 
Loggia  the  great  Herculean  form  of  the  Almighty,  who, 
in  a  single  bound  that  fully  displays  his  limbs,  tra- 
verses the  realm  of  darkness.  Next  the  graceful  form 
of  Eve  plucking  the  apple,  her  charming  head,  and  tho 
vigorous  muscles  of  her  youthful  form  as  it  turns  on  tL  e 
hips, — all  these  figures,  so  powerful  in  their  structure  and 
so  easy  in  action.  Next  the  white  caryatides  of  the 
Hall  of  Heliodorus,  simple  light-grey  figures,  veritable 
goddesses,  sublime  in  their  simplicity  and  grandeur  and 
related  to  the  antique,  but  with  an  air  of  gentleness  and 
sweetness  which  Junos  and  Minervas  do  not  possess ; 
exempt  from  thought  like  their  Greek  sisters,  and,  in 


THE  SCHOOL  OP  ATHENS.          157 

their  unruffled  serenity,  occupied  in  turning  a  head 
or  lifting  an  arm.  It  is  with  these  ideal  and  allegorical 
figures  that  Raphael  triumphs ; — on  the  ceiling  Philo 
sophy,  so  grave  and  so  vigorous;  Jurisprudence,  an 
austere  virgin  with  downcast  eyes,  raising  a  sword ;  and 
especially  Poesy;  and  again  the  three  goddesses  seated 
before  Parnassus,  and  who,  half  turning,  form,  with  three 
children,  a  group  worthy  of  ancient  Olympus,  all  being 
incomparable  figures,  and  above  the  standard  of  humanity. 
Like  the  ancients  he  suppresses  the  accidental,  the  fleeting 
expressions  of  human  physiognomy ;  all  those  details  that 
characterise  a  being  tossed  and  tumbled  about  in  life's 
battle.  His  personages  are  emancipated  from  the  laws  of 
nature ;  they  have  experienced  no  trials,  and  are  incapable 
of  becoming  excited ;  their  calm  attitudes  are  the  attitudes 
of  statues.  You  would  not  dare  to  address  them;  you 
are  restrained  by  respect,  a  respect,  nevertheless,  mingled 
with  sympathy,  for  beneath  their  grave  exterior  you 
detect  a  basis  of  goodness  and  feminine  sensibility. 
Raphael  breathed  his  own  spirit  into  them ;  and  even 
sometimes,  as  in  the  muses  of  Parnassus,  many  of  the 
young  women,  and  among  others  she  with  the  naked 
shoulder,  have  a  penetrating  suavity,  and  a  sweetness 
almost  modem.  He  loved  these. 

All  this  is  more  forcibly  displayed  in  the  '  School  of 
Athens.'  Those  groups  on  the  steps,  above  and  around 
the  two  philosophers,  never  did  and  never  could  exist ; 
a iid  it  is  for  this  very  reason  that  they  are  so  fine.  The 
ecene  lies  in  a  superior  world,  one  which  mortal  eyea 
never  beheld,  a  creation  wholly  of  the  artist's  imagina- 
tion. These  figures  belong  to  the  same  family  as  the 
divinities  on  the  ceiling.  You  must  remain  before  them 
full  half  a  day.  Once  realise  that  they  are  walking,  and 
the  scene  strikes  you  as  transcending  all  things  here 
below.  The  youth  in  a  long  Avhite  robe  with  angelic 
features  ascends  the  steps  like  a  meditative  appaiitioa 


158  ROME. 

The  other,  with  curled  locks,  bending  over  the  geometrical 
diagram,  and  his  three  companions  alongside  are  all 
divine.  It  is  like  a  dream  in  the  clouds.  As  with  all 
the  figures  of  an  ecstatic  vision  or  in  reveries,  these  may 
remain  in  the  same  attitudes  indefinitely.  Time  does 
not  pass  away  with  them.  The  old  man  erect  in  a  red 
mantle,  and  the  adjoining  figure  regarding  him,  and  the 
youth  writing  might  thus  continue  for  ever.  All  is  well 
with  them.  Their  being  is  complete ;  they  appear  at  om» 
of  those  moments  which  Faust  indicates  when  he  exclaims, 
'  Stand,  ye  are  perfect  I '  Their  repose  is  eternal  happi- 
ness ;  a  certain  condition  of  things  has  been  accomplished 
and  it  must  not  be  disturbed. 

Human  life,  whether  of  the  body  or  of  the  spirit,  is  of 
infinite  and  immense  diversity ;  but  there  are  only  certain 
portions  of  it,  certain  moments,  which  like  a  rose  among 
a  hundred  thousand  others  deserve  to  subsist,  and  these 
are  those  attitudes.  Plenitude  of  force  and  harmony  of 
the  human  structure  are  here  displayed  without  incon- 
gruity or  effort.  This  suffices ;  we  ask  for  nothing  more. 
Two  adult  men  suspended  beneath  a  calm  adolescent  in 
erect  posture  constitute  a  beautiful  form,  and  it  is  pleasant 
to  forget  oneself  before  it.  The  expression  of  the  heads 
is  not  antagonistic;  if  too  pensive,  too  real,  too  brilliantly 
painted,  they  would  suggest  passion  or  emotion ;  in  the 
serenity  they  now  possess,  in  that  sombre  tint,  they  are 
in  harmony  with  the  quiet  architectural  significance  of 
the  postures. 

Of  all  the  artists  I  am  familiar  with  none  so  mucli 
icsemble  Raphael  as  Spenser.  On  first  reading  him 
many  find  Spenser  dull  and  formal ;  nothing  with  him 
seems  real ;  afterwards  one  ascends  with  him  into  the 
light,  and  personages  which  could  not  possibly  ex  is' 
appear  divine. 


CHAPTEE  YII. 

not  rABNESE  PALACE — THE    MUSEUMS  OF  THE  VATICAK  AM)  THOi 
CAPITOL — THE   ACADEMY   OF   ST.    LUKE. 

I  TAKE  a  cab  and  traverse  a  numbei  of  crooked,  melan- 
choly streets.  I  pass  over  the  Ponte  San-Sisto  and  see 
on  either  side  of  the  river  a  confused  mass  of  hovels  and 
a  long  range  of  dripping  arcades ;  beyond  is  a  cluster  of 
hovels,  all  still  preserving  a  middle-age  aspect.  In  a 
few  moments  I  stand  in  a  Renaissance  palace  before  the' 
Psyches  of  Raphael. 

They  form  the  decoration  of  a  large  dining-hall  wain- 
scoted with  marble,  the  ceiling  of  which  is  curved  and 
framed  in  by  a  garland  of  flowers  and  fruits.  Above 
each  window  the  garland  expands  in  order  to  make  room 
for  the  vigorous  forms  of  Jupiter,  Venus,  Psyche,  Mer- 
cury, and  the  assembly  of  gods  that  cover  the  entire 
arch.  On  raising  their  eyes  above  the  table  loaded 
with  gold  plate  and  monstrous  fishes  the  convivialista 
could  contemplate  beautiful  naked  forms  relieving  on  the 
background  of  Olympian  blue,  amongst  voluptuous  gar- 
lands where  feminine  gourds  and  masculine  radishes  re- 
minded them  of  the  broad  humour  of  Aristophanes.  The 
courtesan  Impcria  could  come  here ;  the  guests — parasites 
like  Tamisius,  and  licentious  artists  like  Julio  Romano  and 
Aretino,  also  prelates  and  nobles  nourished  amid  the 
dangers  and  undisguised  sensuality  of  their  age — could 
sympathetically  gaze  on  this  £ay.  grand,  vigorous  art,  on 


160  ROME. 

these  rudely-executed  figures,  whose  bricklike  tints  arc 
rather  indications  of  their  subjects  than  finished  produc- 
tions. Frequently  a  daub  of  white  and  a  spot  of  black 
make  an  eye ;  the  three  nude  Graces  of  the  banquet  are 
as  muscular  as  so  many  wrestlers ;  several  of  the  gods — 
Hercules,  Pan,  Pluto,  and  a  river-god — are  simply  robust 
blacksmiths  dashed  on  with  broad  masses  of  colour  as  ii 
for  tapestry ;  the  cupids  that  transport  Psyche  have  solid 
bloated  flesh  like  overfed  children.  There  is  an  exuber- 
ance of  pagan  vigorousness  throughout  this  painting 
almost  amounting  to  clumsiness.  In  Rome  the  type  is 
rather  one  of  strength  than  of  elegance ;  the  women, 
taking  but  little  exercise,  become  fleshy  and  heavy ;  traces 
of  this  amplitude  appear  in  many  of  Raphael's  female 
figures — in  his  pulpy  Graces,  in  the  massive  Eve,  and  in 
the  largeness  of  the  torso  of  his  Venus.  The  paganism  to 
which  he  inclined  was  not  of  the  Attic  standard,  and  his 
pupils  who  executed  the  paintings  in  this  hall  either  half- 
neglected  or  else  exaggerated  his  indications,  like  the 
engraver  who,  in  reproducing  a  picture,  is  indifferent  to 
its  delicacies.  In  order  to  satisfy  oneself  of  this  it  is  only 
necessary  to  compare  together  the  fresco  and  the  original 
design  of  '  Venus  receiving  the  Vase.'  The  figure  as 
originally  drawn  is  a  virgin  of  primitive  times,  inexpres- 
sibly sweet  and  innocent;  her  childlike  head,  as  yet 
unvexed  with  thought,  placed  on  a  Herculean  trunk 
carries  the  mind  back  involuntarily  to  the  origin  of  the 
human  family  ;  to  those  days  when  maidens  were  entitled 
'milkers  of  the  cow; 'when  simple  athletic  races,  with 
short  swords  and  dogs  driving  lions  to  bay,  descended 
from  their  mountain  fastnesses  to  colonise  the  universe.* 
Even  through  the  translation  of  his  pupils  the  painted 
figure  here,  as  the  fresco  throughout,  is  still  unique ;  ii 
is  a  new  type,  not  copied  from  the  Greek,  but  proceeding 
*  According  to  Sanscrit  tradition. 


THE   FARNESE   PALACE.  161 

wholly  from  the  painter's  brain  and  his  observation  of  the 
nude  model ;  of  remarkable  energy  and  plenitude,  the 
muscle  being  brought  out  not  through  a  forced  imitation 
of  nature,  but  because  it  is  living,  and  the  artist  sym- 
pathetically enjoyed  its  tension.  *  Psyche  borne  through 
the  air  by  Cupids,'  and  *  Venus  entreating  Jupiter,'  are 
of  charming  freshness  and  youthfulness.  And  what 
can  be  said  of  the  two  floral  messengers  with  their 
butterfly  wings,  and  of  the  lovely  dancing  Grace  in  the 
banquet  who  arrives,  scarcely  touching  her  foot  to  the 
ground  ?  All  this  sparkles  with  gaiety ;  life's  richest 
ilowers  are  gathered  by  handfuls.  In  the  space  along- 
side of  the  grand  goddesses  are  flying  children  ;  a  Cupid 
yoking  a  lion  and  a  sea-horse  ;  another  diving  into  the  soft 
waves,  in  which  he  is  going  to  sport  himself;  then  white 
doves,  little  birds,  hippogriffs,  a  sphinx  with  a  dragon's 
body,  and  other  gay  creations  of  an  ideal  imaginative- 
ness. Among  these  phantasies  winds  the  tufted  garland, 
intermingling  the  splendours  of  spring  and  summer, 
pomegranate  and  oak-leaves,  blooming  daisies,  the  pale 
golden  lime,  the  satiny  calyxes  of  the  white  narcissus, 
along  with  the  opulent  rotundity  of  the  gourd  family. 
How  remote  from  his  former  Christian  timidities  !  Be- 
tween the  {  Descent  from  the  Cross '  and  the  Farnesian 
decoration,  the  breath  of  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance 
passed  over  him  and  developed  all  his  genius  on  the 
side  of  vigour  and  joyousness. 

His  poor  *  Galatea '  in  the  adjoining  apartment  has 
greatly  suffered  through  time.  She  looks  faded  out ;  part 
of  the  design  has  disappeared ;  the  sea  and  the  sky  are 
dull,  and  stained  in  patches.  It  is,  nevertheless,  the 
work  of  Raphael,  as  is  evident  in  the  gentleness  of  Gala- 
tea, in  the  action  of  the  Cupid  displaying  his  limbs  so 
harmoniously,  and  in  the  originality  of  the  conception  of 
the  sea  gods  and  goddesses.  The  nude  nymph,  clasped  by 
M 


162  ROME. 

the  waist,  yields  with  an  expression  of  charming  coquetry  j 
the  bearded  triton  with  his  Roman  nose,  who  clutches 
and  enfolds  her  in  his  nervous  arms,  displays  the  alert- 
ness and  spirit  of  an  animal  god  inhaling  with  the  salt 
air  of  the  sea  huge  drafts  of  force  and  contentment. 
Behind  is  a  female  with  floating  blonde  hair  seated  on 
the  back  of  the  god  that  bears  her  off,  her  arched  back 
bending  with  masterly  elegance.  The  painter  does  not 
abandon  himself  to  his  subject;  he  remains  sober  and 
ten  perate,  avoiding  all  extremes  of  action  and  expression, 
ever  purifying  his  types  and  composing  his  attitudes. 
This  natural  love  of  proportion  and  those  affectionate 
instincts,  which,  as  with  Mozart,  led  him  to  portray  innate 
goodness,  that  delicacy  of  spirit  and  of  organs  which 
everywhere  made  him  seek  the  noble  and  the  gentle,  all 
that  is  happy,  generous,  and  worthy  of  tenderness,  the  sin- 
gular good  fortune  of  encountering  art  on  its  dividing  line 
between  perfection  and  decline,  that  unique  advantage  of 
a  twofold  education,  which,  after  showing  him  Christian 
purity  and  innocence,  made  him  sensible  of  the  vigour  and 
joyousness  of  paganism ;  all  these  gifts  and  circumstances 
were  necessary  in  order  to  carry  him  onward  to  the  sum- 
mit. Vasari  justly  says  :  *  If  one  desires  to  see  clearly 
how  generous,  how  prodigal,  heaven  sometimes  is  in 
accumulating  on  one  person  the  infinite  wealth  of  its 
treasures,  all  those  graces  and  rare  endowments  which  are 
commonly  scattered  among  several  during  a  long  period 
of  time,  let  him  contemplate  Raphael  Sanzio  d'Urbino.' 

The  Museums,  April  15.— There  are  some  lays  when 
you  can  take  up  an  idea,  and  follow  it  as  on  a  straight 
road,  and  others  like  those  I  have  just  passed  when  you 
wander  off  right  and  left  among  the  by-roads.  Finding 
myself  near  the  Vatican,  I  again  ascended  to  its  upper 
stories  and  revisited  that  precious  museum.  How  many 
things  a  picture  contains  !  The  province  of  painting,  ai 


THE   MUSEUM   OP  THE   VATICAN.  16« 

with  the  other  arts  of  design,  is  to  gather  an  artist's  ideas 
into  one  simultaneous  concentrated  effect.  The  other  arts( 
music  and  poetry,  disperse  the  impression. 

I  again  contemplate  the  charming  '  Christ '  of  Correg- 
gio,  seated  half-naked  on  a  cloud,  smiling  and  surrounded 
by  angels,  the  most  amiable,  rosy,  and  graceful  youth  that 
ever  existed ;  a  '  Doge '  by  Titian,  in  yellow  robes,  BO 
real,  with  such  a  distinct  and  striking  personality,  and  yet 
BO  exquisitely  painted,  that  the  smallest  fold  of  his  laboured 
drapery  is  a  luxury  for  the  eye  to  rest  on  ;  an  '  Entomb- 
ment '  by  Caravaggio,  full  of  figures  and  activity,  studied 
from  life, — vigorous  porters  with  varicose  veins,  and  young 
females  bending  over  and  weeping  and  drying  their  tears 
with  all  the  sincerity  of  impressible  youthfulness.  To-day 
that  which  has  impressed  me  most  is  a  *  St.  Catharine' 
by  Murillo,  of  a  strange,  disturbing  attractiveness.  Her 
beauty  is  of  a  dangerous  order ;  her  oblique  glance,  and 
black  downcast  eyes  gleam  with  secret  ardour.  What  a 
contrast  between  this  tint  of  a  southern  flower  and  that 
flame  !  How  impassioned  a  lover,  and  what  a  devotee  I 
In  Raphael's  works,  the  repose  which  sober  colour  gives 
and  a  sculptural  attitude  deprive  the  eyes  of  a  portion 
of  their  vivacity.  Spanish  colour,  on  the  contrary,  is 
quivering ;  the  unconscious  sensuality  of  an  ardent  nature, 
the  sudden  palpitation  of  fugitive  vehement  emotions,  the 
nervous  excitement  of  voluptuousness  and  ecstacy,  the 
force,  the  rage,  of  internal  fires  lurk  in  that  flesh  illumi- 
nated by  its  own  intensity,  in  those  ruddy  tints  drowned 
in  those  deep  mysterious  darks. 

The  '  Prodigal  Son,'  on  the  same  side,  is  so  affectingly 
euppliant  1  The  Spaniard  is  of  another  race  than  the 
Italian ;  he  is  less  well-balanced,  less  restrained  by  the 
harmonising  influences  of  beauty ;  he  is  carried  away  by 
internal  commotion,  and  expresses  his  feeling  and  ideaa 
crudely  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  form 

X  2 


164  ROME. 

On  contemplating  Raphael's  c  Madonna  di  Foligno  *  a 
second  time,  I  am  confirmed  in  my  opinion  that  this  art  ia 
of  another  age  :  a  modern  must  undergo  soine  preparation 
in  order  to  comprehend  it.  Which  among  the  ordinary, 
unacquired  sentiments,  will  interest  him  in  the  muscles  of 
those  two  little  nude  angels,  in  that  fold  of  the  stomac  h 
do  fin  ing  the  basin  of  the  body,  in  the  torsion  by  which 
the  soft  hip  of  the  infant  Jesus  is  raised  up,  and  the  flesh 
of  the  thigh  pressed  against  the  belly  ?  All  this  appealed 
to  a  man  of  that  time,  and  does  not  appeal  to  one  of  the 
present  day.  Our  eyes  fix  themselves  without  effort  on 
the  charming  humour  of  the  two  children,  on  the  gentleness 
and  modesty  of  the  Virgin,  on  the  timidity  of  her  action,  as 
she  touches  the  blue  girdle  of  the  Infant ;  and  if  anything 
besides  these,  and  the  eye  is  sensitive,  on  the  pleasing 
effect  of  the  gilded  border  of  her  red  robe. 

Undoubtedly  the  celebrated  '  Communion  of  St. 
Jerome,'  by  Domenichino,  hanging  opposite,  is  flimsy  in 
comparison ;  his  hand  is  not  so  sure ;  he  is  a  little  of  a 
trickster ;  he  finds  his  compensation  in  architecture,  in 
imitations  of  showy  embroideries,  and  in  a  rich  display 
borrowed  from  the  Venetians.  Reason  satisfies  us  that 
Raphael's  style  is  the  better.  She  tells  us,  similarly, 
that  Racine  and  Port-Royal,  Lysias  and  Plato,  write 
better  than  we  write.  But  our  sentiments  do  not  enter 
into  their  mould,  and  we  cannot  disembarrass  ourselves 
of  our  sentiments. 

The  Capitol  Museum. — I  passed  through  the  museum  - 
hastily   on   my  first  visit,   and   I   was   too   weary.      I 
believe  that  I  have  alluded  to  but  one  picture  there,  the 
1  Rape  of  Europa,'  by  Paul  Veronese. 

The  principal  one  is  an  enormous  picture  of  *  Saint 
Petronia,'  by  Guercino.  The  body  is  being  taken  out  of 
the  ground  while  the  soul  is  received  into  Paradise.  This 
is  a  composite  work  :  the  artist,  according  to  the  practice 


THE  MUSEUM  OF  THE  CAPITOL.  165 

of  schools  not  primitive,  having  assembled  together  three 
or  four  kinds  of  effect.  He  addresses  the  eye  with 
powerful  contrasts  of  ligbl  and  dark,  and  with  the  rich 
draperies  of  the  saint  and  )/er  betrothed.  He  imitates  30 
literally  as  to  produce  illraon :  the  little  boy  holding  the 
taper  is  of  striking  fideUfr/ — you  have  met  him  somewhere 
in  the  streets ;  the  >.o  powerful  men  raising  the  body 
have  all  the  vulgarly  and  masculine  energy  of  their  pro- 
fession. He  is  dramatic :  the  humble  attitude  of  the 
saint  in  heaven  i&  charming,  and  the  head  crowned  with 
roses  furnishes  a  contrast  to  the  tragic  heaviness  of  the 
corpse  enveloped  in  its  pale  winding-sheet ;  the  aspect  of 
Christ  is  tender  and  affectionate,  and  not,  as  elsewhere,  a 
simple  form.  The  entire  subject — death,  cold  and  lugu- 
brious, contrasted  with  a  happy  triumphant  resurrection — 
serves  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  multitude  and  excite 
its  emotion.  Painting  thus  regarded  leaves  its  natural 
limits  and  approaches  literature. 

His  '  Sibyl  Persica,'  under  her  peculiar  poetic  head- 
dress, is  already  quite  modern.  She  has  one  of  those 
pensive,  complicated,  indefinable  expressions  which  pleases 
us  so  greatly,  a  spirit  of  infinite  delicacy,  trembling 
with  nervous  sensibility,  and  whose  mysterious  fascina- 
tion will  never  end 

The  '  Presentation  of  Christ  at  the  Temple,'  by  Fra 
Bartolomeo.  The  contrast  here  is  striking.  Art  and, 
I  may  say,  civilisation  were  completely  transformed 
between  these  two  masters.  Nothing  could  be  nobler, 
simpler,  more  full  of  repose,  and  healthier  than  this  art. 
You  are  the  more  impressed  by  it  after  having  seen  the 
combinations  and  novelties  of  Guercino.  There  are  two 
epochs  in  Italy,  that  of  Ariosto  and  the  Renaissance  and 
that  of  Tasso  and  the  Catholic  Restoration. 

A  *  Magdalen,'  by  Tintoretto,  on  a  heap  of  straw,  dark, 
haggard,  with  hair  dishevelled,  and  profoundly  penitent 


198  ROME. 

She  is  weeping  and  praying.  Through  the  entrance  of  the 
cavern  gleams  the  mournful  crescent  moon;  that  glimpse 
of  the  desert,  with  the  terrors  of  night  above  the  poor 
sobbing  creature,  is  heart-rending.  The  more  one  sees  cf 
Tintoretto,  the  more  does  one  find  in  him  on  a  grand 
scale  the  same  temperament  as  Delacroix,  the  same  sen- 
timent of  the  tragic  in  the  real,  the  same  impetuous 
Bympathy  excited  by  contact  with  outward  objects,  and 
the  same  talent  for  expressing  the  crudity,  nakedness, 
and  energy  of  truth  and  of  passion. 

Wandering  around  the  Capitol  lately,  I  entered  the 
Academy  of  St.  Luke.  Few  galleries  in  Rome  are  equal 
to  this. 

Here  are  two  large  pictures  by  Guido.  One  represents 
'  Fortune '  a  naked  goddess,  flying  above  the  earth,  and 
holding  a  diadem  in  her  hand.  The  other  is  the  '  Rape 
of  Ariadne ; '  the  deep  blue  sea  extends  into  infinity,  and 
a  tall  white  female  stands  on  a  rock,  while  another  ap- 
proaches her  leading  a  handsome  youth,  draped,  and  near 
by  is  a  reclining  female  playing  with  an  infant.  Nothing 
could  be  more  easy  and  elegant.  The  painters  of  this 
age  possessed  all  types,  and  this  one  delighted  in  the 
softer  and  more  agreeable  reminiscences  of  Greek  beauty. 
His  painting,  however,  lacks  substance ;  it  is  too  white, 
and  reminds  you  of  the  platitude  and  conventionality  of 
the  tragedies  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

A  somewhat  dilapidated  fresco  by  Raphael  places  this 
deficiency  in  full  light.  It  is  only  a  naked  infant,  but  as 
strong,  animated,  and  simple  as  a  Pompeian  antique ;  the 
eyes  are  beaming ;  this  solid  young  figure  shows  the  first 
awakening  of  curiosity  in  the  soul. 

A  small  picture,  scarcely  more  than  a  sketch,  by  Rubena, 
is  a  masterpiece.  Two  nude  women  are  crowning  a  com- 
panion, whilst  small  white  Cupids  overhead  form  a  garland 
They  are  not  too  fat,  and  their  action  is  so  natural,  eo 


THE   ACADEMY   OF  ST.    LUKE.  161 

elegant  I  This  term  seems  strange  as  applied  to  Rubens. 
But  nobody  like  him  has  so  appreciated  the  flexibility  of 
the  human  form,  and  so  directly  recorded  his  impressions. 
Life  in  other  artists,  on  comparing  them  with  him,  seema 
to  be  stagnant.  He  alone  has  comprehended  the  fluid 
softness  of  flesh,  the  instantaneous.  This,  in  fact,  is  the 
nature  of  life ;  it  is  the  jet  of  an  exhaustless  fountain  that 
never  remains  stationary;  in  animated  flesh  the  blood 
rushes  to  and  fro  with  the  velocity  of  a  torrent ;  this  pul- 
sation of  a  substance  in  incessant  motion  is  visible  in  his 
freshness  of  tint  and  in  the  fluidity  of  his  forms.  But  I 
risk  saying  too  much  on  Rubens ;  no  works  afford  such  a 
rich  and  inexhaustible  treasury  for  the  observer  of  man. 

On  this  domain  the  Venetians  alone  approach  him. 
They  reduce  his  exuberance,  but  they  ennoble  it.  There 
are  Palma  Vecchios  and  Titians  here  whose  voluptuous 
richness  and  superb  flesh  reveal  a  whole  world  beyond 
that  of  Roman  art.  Palma  Vecchio  stands  at  its  en- 
trance;  his  splendid  vigorous  colour,  like  a  glaring 
ruddy  sunset,  his  powerful  modelling  and  the  magnifi- 
cent torsions  of  his  substantial  figures  announce  a 
primitive  taste,  that  of  force ;  in  every  school  you  first 
discover  the  simple  and  grave  type ;  only  later  do  they 
refine  and  render  it  seductive. 

Titian  stands  in  the  centre,  equally  strong  on  the  side 
of  sensuality  and  on  that  of  energy.  In  a  beautiful  Italian 
landscape,  fading  away  in  blue  distance,  and  near  a  foun- 
tain whose  waters  are  disbursed  by  a  little  Cupid,  hia 
Callisto  has  fallen,  violently  stripped  by  her  nymphs.  No 
mere  prettiness  or  epicureanism  exists  in  this  bold  com- 
position. The  nymphs  do  their  office  brutally,  like  com- 
mon women  with  vigorous  arms.  One,  especially,  erect 
and  with  a  superb,  almost  masculine,  torso,  is  a  virago 
capable  of  giving  a  man  a  drubbing.  Another,  with  the 
cruel  malice  of  an  experienced  hand,  bends  the  back  of 


168  ROME. 

the  poor  culprit,  in  order  the  sooner  to  detect  the  signs 
of  her  misfortune.  But  in  his  other  picture, '  Vanity, 
naked  on  a  white  bed  with  a  sceptre  and  crown,  a  wav- 
ing and  elegant  figure  so  seductively  soft,  is  the  most 
alluring  mistress  that  a  patrician  could  deck  with  his 
purple,  and  make  use  of  at  evening  to  feed  his  practised 
eyes  with  exquisite  sensuality. — Paul  Veronese  comes 
last.  He  is  a  decorator,  free  of  the  virile  gigantic  lusti- 
ness which  often  carries  Titian  away ;  the  most  skilful 
of  all  in  the  art  of  distilling  and  combining  those  pleasures 
which  pure  colour  in  its  contrasts,  gradations,  and  har- 
monies, affords  the  eye.  His  picture  represents  a  woman 
occupied  in  arranging  her  hair  before  a  mirror  held  by  a 
little  Cupid.  A  violet  curtain  enlivens  with  its  faded 
tints  the  beautiful  flesh  framed  in  by  white  linen.  A 
small  plaited  border  rests  its  delicate  frill  on  the  amber 
softness  of  the  breast.  The  auburn  hair  is  gathered  in 
curls  over  the  brow  on  the  edge  of  the  temples.  You 
eee  the  forms  of  the  thigh  and  breasts  beneath  the  che- 
mise. With  that  vague  vinous  blush  on  those  mingled 
faded  darks  of  dead  leaves,  the  entire  flesh,  permeated  with 
inward  light,  palpitates,  and  its  round  pulpy  forms  seem 
to  be  trembling  as  if  with  a  caress. 

The  picture  the  most  contemplated  is  '  Lucretia  and 
Sextus,'  by  Cagnacci,  an  artist  of  I  know  not  what  epoch, 
but  certainly  a  late  one.  You  may  imagine  its  dramatic 
subject  and  its  treatment  with  a  view  to  dramatic  effect. 
Naked,  on  white  linen  and  red  drapery,  lying  on  hei 
back  with  her  head  lower  than  her  bosom,  she  is  strug- 
gling with  and  repelling  the  breast  of  the  villain.  This 
charming  delicate  female  form  crushed  down  by  physical 
force  excites  pity.  The  slightest  details  are  affecting, 
in  her  waving  hair  there  are  white  pearls  unloosening 
themselves.  He,  however,  in  his  blue  doublet  striped 
with  gold,  seems  to  be  a  ruffian  of  the  day,  some  assassin 


THE  ACADEMY  OF  ST.  LUKE.  1W 

Osio,  and  grand  seignor,  like  him  of  whom  the  trial  of 
Virginia  de  Leyva  shows  us  the  manly  bearing,  fine 
manners  and  assassinations.  A  slave  awaits  under  a 
large  portico,  holding  his  master's  sword.  Similar  expe- 
ditions were  made  to  the  convent  of  Monza,  near  Milan, 
ftt  tiie  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

tflOS    MANNERS    AND   CUSTOMS  OF    THE    RENAISSANCE PHYSICAL 

ACTION  AND  PICTURESQUE  POMP — IMAGES  AND   NOT  IDEAS  FIIL 
THE   MINDS   OF   THIS   EPOCH. 

The  Sistine  Chapel  and  the  Sixteenth  Century. — Do  you 
remember  our  visit  last  year  to  the  ficole  des  Beaux- 
Arts  with  Louis  B ,  a  cultivated,  intelligent,  and 

learned  man,  if  there  is  one,  to  see  the  copy  of  Michael 
Angelo's  '  Last  Judgment '  P  Yawning,  and  diverting 
himself  at  our  expense,  he  declared  that  he  preferred 
the  *  Last  Judgment '  of  the  English  artist  Martin.  *  At 
all  events,'  he  exclaimed,  *  you  have  got  the  seen  a 
itself,  heaven,  earth,  lightning,  and  the  immense  throng 
of  the  dead  flocking  from  their  graves  by  legions  undei 
the  supernatural  light  of  the  last  day  and  night.  Here 
there  is  neither  heaven,  earth,  hell,  nor  abyss ;  nothing  but 
two  or  three  hundred  figures  posing.'  You  replied  that 
Michael  Angelo  did  not  paint  heaven,  earth,  hell,  01 
abyss,  that  he  did  not  regard  infinity  and  supernatural 
light  as  personages,  that  he  was  a  sculptor  with  the 
human  form  as  his  sole  means  of  expression,  that  his  fresce 
must  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of  bas-relief  in  which  the  gran 
deur  and  spirit  of  his  attitudes  replace  the  rest ;  and  that 
if  we  of  the  present  day,  in  this  final  tragedy,  give  promi- 
nence to  space,  lightning,  and  an  indistinct  throng  of 
diminutive  figures,  it  was  then  given  to  a  few  colossi 
expressing  the  same  tragic  sentiment  through  draped  and 
difficult  attitudes. 

Whence  comes  this  change?     And  why  should  thai 


MANNEHS  AND   CUSTOMS   OP  THE  EENAISSANCE.     171 

age  be  so  much  interested  in  muscles?  It  is  because 
muscles  were  closely  observed.  I  have  reread  the  writers 
of  the  time,  the  details  of  the  education  and  violent 
manners  and  customs  of  the  sixteenth  century ;  if  one 
wishes  to  understand  an  art,  it  is  important  to  study  the 
spirit  of  the  people  to  which  it  appeals. 

*  I  require/  says  Castiglione,  in  giving  the  portrait  of 
the  accomplished  gentleman,  'that  our  courtier  be  a 
complete  horseman ;  and,  as  it  is  a  special  merit  of  Italians 
to  govern  the  horse  with  the  bridle,  to  manoeuvre  him  sys- 
tematically— especially  horses  difficult  of  control — to  run 
with  the  lance,  and  to  joust,  let  him  in  these  matters  be 
an  Italian  among  the  best.  In  tourneys  and  passages  at 
arms,  and  in  races  between  barriers,  let  him  be  one  of  the 
good  among  the  best  of  the  French.  In  cudgelling,  bull- 
fighting, casting  darts  and  lances,  let  him  excel  among 
the  Spaniards.  It  is  proper,  moreover,  that  he  should  be 
skilled  in  running  and  in  jumping.  Another  noble  exercise 
is  tennis.  And  I  do  not  esteem  it  a  slight  merit  to  be  able 
to  leap  a  horse.'  All  these  were  not  simple  precepts 
given  in  conversation  and  in  books,  but  were  in  conformity 
with  conduct  and  customs.  Julian  de  Medici,  assassi- 
nated by  the  Pazzi,  is  praised  by  his  biographer,  not  only 
for  his  poetic  talent  and  his  tact  as  a  connoisseur,  but 
for  his  skill  in  horsemanship,  in  wrestling,  and  in  throw- 
ing the  javelin.  Caesar  Borgia,  the  noted  politician,  is  as 
accomplished  in  pugilism  as  in  intrigue.  '  He  is  twenty- 
Beven  years  of  age,'  says  a  contemporary,  *  handsome  and 
tall,  and  the  pope,  his  father,  holds  him  in  great  fear.  He 
has  slain  six  savage  bulls  in  contending  against  them 
with  a  pike  on  horseback,  and  cleft  the  head  of  one  of 
these  bulls  at  the  first  blow.'  Italy  at  this  time  fur- 
nishes Europe  with  its  most  skilful  masters  of  arms  ;  in 
the  engravings  of  that  day  we  see  Ihe  pupil  naked  with  a 
poniard  in  one  lund  and  a  sword  in  the  other,  preparing 


IT*  HOME. 

himself,  and  rendering  his  muscles  supple  from  head  to 
foot,  like  the  antique  athlete  or  wrestler. 

And  it  is  necessary,  for  public  order  is  badly  main- 
tained. 'On  the  20th  September,'  says  a  chronicler, 
'there  was  great  tumult  in  the  city  of  Rome,  and  the 
merchants  closed  their  shops.  Those  who  were  in  their 
fields,  or  in  their  vineyards,  returned  home  in  all  haste, 
and  seized  their  arms,  because  it  was  announced  for  a 
certainty  that  Pope  Innocent  VIII.  was  dead.'  The 
feeble  ties  holding  society  together  were  easily  broken, 
and  people  returned  to  a  savage  state,  each  one  profiting 
by  the  occasion  to  rid  himself  of  his  enemies.  It  must 
not  be  inferred  by  this  that  they  abstained  from  attacking 
each  other  in  times  of  tranquillity.  The  private  feuds  of  the 
Colonna  and  the  Orsini  kept  Rome  in  as  great  a  state  of 
confusion  as  in  the  darkest  centuries  of  the  medieval 
epoch.  '  Even  in  the  city  many  murders  were  committed, 
and  robberies  by  day  and  by  night,  and  scarcely  a  day 
passed  that  some  one  was  not  slain.  The  third  day  of 
September,  a  certain  Salvator  attacked  his  enemy,  the 
Signer  Beneaccaduto,  notwithstanding  he  was  bound  over 
to  keep  the  peace  with  him  under  a  penalty  of  500 
ducats,  and  he  gave  him  two  mortal  blows,  from  which 
he  died.  On  the  fourth  day  the  Pope  sent  his  vice- 
cameriere,  with  the  conservatori  and  all  the  people,  to 
destroy  Salvator's  house.  They  destroyed  it,  and  on 
that  fourth  day  of  September,  Jerome,  the  brother  of  the 
said  Salvator,  was  hung.'  I  might  cite  fifty  similar 
examples.  At  this  time  man  is  too  powerful,  too  much 
accustomed  to  do  himself  justice,  too  sudden  and  quick  in 
his  treatment  of  facts.  '  One  day,'  says  Guicciardini 
'  Trivulce  slew  in  the  market-place,  with  his  own  hand, 
eome  butchers,  who,  with  the  insolence  customary  with 
this  class,  opposed  the  collection  of  taxes  from  which  they 
had  not  been  exempted.'  As  far  down  as  1537,  lists  were 


MANNERS  AND   CUSTOMS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE.     17S 

kept  open  at  Ferrara,  where  deadly  duels  were  permitted 
even  to  strangers,  and  to  which  boys  resorted  to  fight 
with  knives.  The  Princess  of  Faenza  set  four  assassins 
on  her  husband,  and,  seeing  that  he  resisted  them,  jumped 
from  her  bed  and  stabbed  him  herself.  Upon  this,  her 
father  entreats  Lorenzo  de  Medicis  to  solicit  the  Pope  foi 
a  remission  of  the  ecclesiastical  censure  of  the  act,  alleging 
that  he  thinks  of  *  providing  her  with  another  husband.' 
The  Prince  of  Imola  is  assassinated,  and  his  body  thrown 
from  a  window ;  and  on  threatening  his  widow,  shut  up  in 
the  fortress,  with  the  death  of  her  children  if  she  refused  to 
surrender,  she  ascends  to  the,  battlements,  and  with  a  very 
expressive  gesture,  replies  that  'the  mould  remains  in 
which  to  cast  others.'  Consider,  again,  the  spectacles 
daily  witnessed  in  Kome.  *  The  second  Sunday,  a  man  in 
the  Borgo,  masked,  uttered  offensive  words  against  the 
Duke  Valentinois.  The  duke,  on  being  informed  of  them, 
caused  him  to  be  seized,  and  had  his  hand  cut  off,  also  the 
anterior  portion  of  the  tongue,  which  was  attached  to  the 
little  finger  of  the  severed  member.'  *  The  follower  of 
this  same  duke  suspended  two  old  men  and  eight  old 
women  by  their  arms,  after  having  kindled  a  fire  under 
their  feet,  in  order  to  make  them  confess  where  they  had 
concealed  their  money,  and  they  not  knowing,  or  not 
wishing  to  tell  where  it  was,  died  under  the  said  torture.' 
Another  day,  the  duke  caused  some  convicts  (gladiandi) 
to  be  brought  into  the  court  of  the  palace,  where,  dressed 
in  his  finest  clothes,  and  before  a  select  and  numerous  com- 
pany, he  transpierced  them  with  arrows.  '  He  also  slew 
Perotto,  the  Pope's  favourite,  under  the  very  robe  of  the 
Pope,  so  that  the  blood  spurted  up  in  the  Pope's  face. 
They  were  perfect  throat-cutters,  this  family.  He  had 
already  caused  his  brother-in-law  to  be  assailed  with  a 
Bword,  and  the  Pope  had  had  the  wounded  man  taken 
care  of'  but  the  Duke  exclaimed  *  What  cannot  be  done 


174  HOME. 

at  dinner  may  be  done  at  supper.'  « And  one  day, 
August  17,  he  entered  his  room,  as  the  young  man  waa 
already  up,  and  obliging  his  wife  and  sister  to  leave  it, 
summoned  three  assassins,  and  the  said  young  man  waa 
strangled.  .  .  .  After  this  he  slew  his  brother,  the 
Duke  of  Gandie,  and  caused  him  to  be  thrown  into  the 
Tiber.'  And  on  demanding  of  the  fisherman,  who  wit- 
nessed the  affair,  why  he  had  not  informed  the  gover- 
nor of  the  city  of  it,  the  man  replied  that  '  during  his 
lifetime  he  had  seen  on  various  nights  more  than  one 
hundred  bodies  thrown  in  at  the  same  place  without  any- 
body having  given  themselves  any  concern  about  it.' 

All  this  comes  out  in  bold  relief  on  reading  the 
memoirs  of  Cellini.  We  of  the  present  day,  in  the  hands 
of  the  state,  and  entrusting  ourselves  to  judges  and  gen- 
darmes, scarcely  comprehend  the  natural  right  of  force 
through  which,  before  societies  were  regularly  estab- 
lished, man  defended  and  avenged  himself,  and  obtained 
satisfaction  for  all  his  wrongs.  In  France,  Spain,  and 
England,  the  savage  brutes  of  the  feudal  period  were 
restrained  by  the  feudal  conception  of  honour,  which,  if 
not  a  check,  kept  them  at  least  within  certain  limits ;  the 
duel  was  substituted  for  private  revenge,  and  men  usually 
killed  each  other  according  to  recognised  rules,  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,  and  at  an  appointed  spot.  But  here 
all  murderous  instincts  found  vent  in  the  streets.  The 
various  scenes  of  violence  recounted  by  Cellini  cannot  be 
enumerated;  and  not  alone  those  in  which  he  was  con- 
cerned, but  others  surrounding  him.  A  bishop,  to  whom  he 
refused  to  deliver  acertain  silver  vase,  ordered  his  retainers 
to  sack  his  house;  Cellini  seizes  his  arqucbuss  and 
barricades  his  doors.  Another  jeweller  named  Piloto  ia 
the  chief  of  a  certain  company,  *  During  his  sojourn  in 
Home,  Rosso  had  spoken  disparagingly  of  the  works  of 
Raphael,  and  the  pupils  of  this  illustrious  master  deter* 


MANNERS  AND   CUSTOMS  OF  THE   RENAISSANCE.     175 

mined  to  kill  him.'  Vasari,  sleeping  with  an  apprentice 
named  Manno,  *  scratched  the  skin  off  of  one  of  his  legs, 
thinking  he  was  scratching  himself,  for  he  never  trimmed 
his  nails/  and  *  Manno  determined  to  kill  him.'  Cellini's 
brother,  on  hearing  that  his  pupil  Bertino  Aldobrar.  li  had 
just  been  slain,  *  uttered  so  great  a  cry  of  rage  that  one 
could  have  heard  him  ten  miles  off;  he  then  said  to 
Giovanni,  "  Thou  canst  at  least  inform  me  who  slew  him  ?  " 
Giovanni  replied,  "  Yes ;  that  it  was  the  man  who  wore  a 
large  two-handed  sword,  and  with  a  blue  plume  in  his 
cap."  My  poor  brother  advanced,  and  having  recognised 
the  murderer  by  this  sign,  sprung  with  his  usual  alacrity 
and  bravery  into  the  midst  of  the  guard,  and  there,  before 
they  could  arrest  him,  he  kicked  the  man  in  the  belly  and  in 
various  other  parts,  and  levelled  him  to  the  ground  with 
his  sword  haft.'  He  is  himself  almost  immediately  knocked 
down  by  a  blow  with  an  arquebuss,  and  then  we  see 
the  vendetta  fury  fully  display  itself.  Cellini  can  no  longer 
eat  or  sleep ;  the  tempest  within  rages  so  violently  that 
he  thinks  he  will  die  if  he  finds  no  relief.  *  I  resolved  one 
evening  to  rid  myself  from  this  torment,  without  consider- 
ing how  little  there  was  to  approve  of  in  the  effort.  .  .  . 
I  approached  the  murderer  cautiously  with  a  large 
poignard,  similar  to  a  hunting-knife.  I  was  hoping  to 
cleave  his  head  with  a  back-handed  stroke,  but  he  turned 
so  quickly,  that  my  weapon  only  fell  on  the  point  of  the 
left  shoulder  and  broke  the  bone.  He  arose,  dropped  his 
eword,  and,  suffering  with  pain,  took  to  his  heels.  I  pur- 
sued him,  and  overtaking  him  in  a  few  paces  raised  my 
poignard  over  his  head,  which  he  held  low,  so  that  my 
weapon  on  entering  at  the  nape  of  the  neck  buried  itself 
dac]  iy,  and  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts  I  could  not  withdraw 
it.'  A  little  while  after  this,  and,  ever  on  a  public 
thoroughfare,  Cellini  kills  Benedetto,  and  next  Pompeio, 
who  had  offended  him.  Cardinal  Medic  is  and  Cardinal 


176  HOME. 

Cormro  think  it  a  fine  thing.  '  As  for  the  Pope,'  says 
Cellini,  after  one  of  these  murders,  *  he  regarded  me  with 
a  threatening  aspect  which  made  me  tremble,  but,  as  soon 
as  he  had  examined  my  work,  his  countenance  began  to 
brighten.'  And  at  another  time,  when  Cellini  was  accused 
before  him,  '  Know,'  said  the  Pope,  '  that  men  high  in 
their  profession  like  Benvenuto  are  not  amenable  to  the 
laws,  and  he,  the  least  of  all,  because  I  know  how  right 
he  is.'  Such  was  public  morality.  All  this  lying  in 
ambush,  meanwhile,  was  prompted  by  the  most  insignifi- 
cant motives.  His  friend  Luigi  had  taken  a  mistress,  a 
courtesan,  to  whom  he,  Cellini,  Avas  indifferent,  but  whom 
he  had  entreated  him  not  to  take.  In  a  furious  mood  he 
placed  himself  in  ambush,  fell  upon  them  both  with  hia 
sword,  wounded  them,  does  not  consider  them  sufficiently 
punished,  and  speaks  of  their  death  afterwards,  which  waa 
not  long  delayed,  with  satisfaction.  As  far  as  private 
morality  is  concerned,  Cellini  has  mystic  visions  while  in 
prison ;  his  guardian  angel  appears  to  him ;  he  con- 
verses with  an  invisible  spirit  he  has  devotional  transports, 
the  effect  of  solitude  and  confinement  on  natures  like  his. 
When  at  liberty,  he  is  a  good  Christian  after  the  fashion 
of  the  day.  Having  made  a  successful  cast  of  his  '  Per- 
seus,' he  set  out,  he  says,  f  singing  psalms  and  hymns  to 
the  glory  of  God,  which  I  continued  to  do  during  the  whole 
journey.'  "We  find  similar  sentiments  in  the  Duke  of 
Ferrara ;  '  Having  been  attacked  with  a  grave  malady 
which,  during  forty-eight  hours,  prevented  a  discharge  of 
urine,  he  betook  himself  to  God  and  ordered  the  payment 
of  all  neglected  obligations.'  One  of  his  predecessors 
Hercules  d'Este,  possesses  a  similar  conscience.  At  the 
end  of  an  orgie,  he  proceeds  to  chant  the  service  with  his 
troop  of  French  musicians,  a  man  who  cut  off  the  hands 
and  plucked  out  the  eyes  of  two  hundred  and  eighty 
prisoner?  before  selling  them,  and  who  on  Holy  Thursday 


MANNERS  AND   CUSTOMS  OF  THE   RENAISSANCE.     177 

performed  the  ceremony  of  washing  the  feet  of  the  poor. 
Such  likewise  is  the  piety  of  Alexander  VI.,  who  on 
hearing  of  the  assassination  of  his  son,  the  Duke  oi 
Gandie,  beats  his  breast,  and,  sobbing,  confesses  his  crimes 
to  the  assembled  cardinals.  The  imigination  in  those 
»lays  is  affected  through  one  or  the  other  of  the  senses, 
sometimes  with  voluptu  :usness,  sometimes  with  rage  and 
sometimes  with  fear.  From  time  to  time  thoughts  of  the 
horrors  of  hell  make  people  shudder,  and  they  fancy  they 
may  balance  accounts  with  wax  tapers,  crossing  themselves, 
and  paternosters ;  but,  fundamentally,  they  are  pagans, 
genuine  barbarians,  and  the  only  voice  they  listen  to  is 
that  of  the  turbulent  flesh,  quivering  nerves,  restless 
members  and  overcharged  brains  buzzing  with  a  confusion 
of  forms  and  colours. 

One  need  not  look  for  much  delicacy,  I  fancy,  in  their 
way  of  doing  things.  Cardinal  Hippolyte  d'Este,  who  put 
out  his  brother's  eyes  receives  an  envoy  of  the  Pope,  the 
bearer  of  an  offensive  brief,  with  a  thrashing.  We  know 
how  Pope  Julius  II.,  in  a  quarrel  with  Michael  Angelo, 
caned  a  bishop  for  attempting  to  interfere.  Cellini  is 
honoured  with  an  audience  by  Pope  Paul  III.  '  He  was,' 
Bays  Cellini,  '  in  the  best  possible  humour,  and  so  much  the 
better  for  the  reason  that  all  this  occurred  on  the  day  he 
was  accustomed  to  indulge  in  a  hearty  debauch,after  which 
he  vomited.'  It  is  impossible  to  follow  the  narration  by 
Buichardjhis  master  of  ceremonies,of  th  e  fetes  given  at  the 
Vatican  in  the  presence  of  Alexander  VI.,  Caesar  Borgia, 
and  the  Duchess  Lucretia ;  nor  even  of  a  certain  little  im- 
promptu amusement  which  these  personages  witnessed 
from  a  window,  *  with  great  laughter  and  satisfaction.'  A 
virandiere  would  blush  at  it.  People  as  yet  are  not  very 
polished.  Crudity  frightens  nobody.  Poets,  like  Berni, 
and  story-tellers,  like  the  bishop  Bandello,  enter  upon  the 
most  hazardous  subjects  and  treat  them  with  the  most 
N 


178  BOMB. 

precise  details.  What  we  call  good  taste  is  a  product  of 
the  salon,  and  is  only  born  into  the  world  under  Louis 
XIV.  What  we  call  ecclesiastical  decency  is  a  counter- 
stroke  of  the  Reformation,  and  only  established  in  the 
times  of  St.  Charles  Borromeo.  Physical  instincts  still 
expose  their  nudity  in  the  strongest  light ;  neither  social  re- 
finements nor  a  sense  of  propriety  have  yet  arisen  to  temper 
or  disguise  the  undiminished  vigour  of  the  raging  senses. 
'  Sometimes,  it  happened,'  says  Cellini,  *  on  penetrating 
unawares  into  the  private  apartments  of  the  Duchess,  1 
surprised  her,  engaged  in  an  occupation  by  no  means 
royal.  .  .  .  She  then  flew  into  such  a  rage  that  I  was 
terrified.'  One  day,  at  the  Duke's  table,  he  gets  into  a 
quarrel  with  the  sculptor  Banclinelli,  who  grossly  insults 
him.  By  a  miracle  he  restrains  himself,  but  in  a  moment 
after  he  says  to  him,  *  I  tell  you  plainly,  that  if  you  do 
not  send  the  marble  to  me  at  my  house,  you  may  seek 
your  place  in  another  world,  for,  cost  what  it  will,  I  will 
rip  up  your  belly  in  this.'  Coarse  terms  fly  about,  as  in 
Rabelais,  also  tavern  obscenities,  while  the  disgusting 
humour  of  drunkards  displays  itself  even  in  the  palace. 
'  What  a  hog  I  am,  I  exclaimed,  what  a  fool !  what  a 
jackass  !  Does  all  your  skill  make  no  more  noise  in  the 
world  than  this  ?  At  the  same  time  I  jumped  on  a  stick.' 
Cellini  appends  four  lines  of  poetry  to  this  adventure,  and 
'  the  Duke  and  Duchess  both  laughed.'  Nowadays,  the 
valets  of  any  respectable  mansion  would  put  such  odd 
characters  outside  the  door.  But  when  a  man  uses  his 
fists  like  a  butcher,  or  his  sword  like  a  bravo,  it  is  natural 
for  him  to  possess  the  humour  of  both  butcher  and 
bravo.* 

*  Cellini  relates  the  manner  in  which  he  behaved  in  a  quarrel  with  one 
of  his  mistresses.  'I  seized  her  by  the  hair  and  dragged  her  about  the 
room,  kicking  and  pounding  her  until  I  became  weary  and  was  obliged  U 
•top.' 


PHYSICAL  ACTION  AND   PICTURESQUE   POMP.       17t 

Diversions  of  a  particular  species  are  likewise  natural 
to  them.  What  a  man  of  the  people  prefers,  that  is  to  say, 
a  man  accustomed  to  corporeal  exercise,  and  whose  senses 
are  rude,  is  an  order  of  entertainment  addressed  to  the 
eye,  and  especially  one  in  which  he  is  himself  an  actor. 
He  is  fond  of  parades,  and  gladly  participates  in  them;  he 
leaves  niceties  of  observation,  conversation,  and  criticism 
to  the  effeminate  and  the  refined,  who  frequent  drawing- 
rooms.  He  likes  to  look  at  acrobats,  clowns,  and  rope- 
dancers,  men  who  grimace  and  exhibit  themselves  in  pan- 
tomimes and  processions,  also  reviews  of  troops,  long  caval- 
cades defiling,  and  variegated  brilliant  uniforms.  Now 
that  the  people  of  Paris  frequent  the  theatres,  it  is  by 
such  means  that  the  popular  theatres  attract  them.  In 
this  frame  of  mind  a  man  is  caught  through  his  eyes. 
What  he  desires  to  see  is  not  a  noble  intellect  but  a 
handsomely  dressed  muscular  figure  erect  in  a  saddle,  and 
when  instead  of  one  there  are  hundreds,  when  embroidery, 
gold  lace,  feathers,  silk,  and  brocade  glitter  in  broad  sun- 
light amidst  rattling  drums  and  trumpets,  when  the  triumph 
and  tumult  of  the  fete  penetrate  to  his  senses  through  every 
channel,  and  his  whole  being  is  aroused  with  involuntary 
sympathy,  then,  if  a  wish  still  remains,  it  is  to  mount  a 
horse  himself,  and,  in  similar  costume,  form  one  of  the  gay 
throng  parading  before  the  attendant  multitude.  Such, 
at  this  time,  is  the  reigning  taste  in  Italy ;  princely  caval- 
cades, magnificent  public  festivals,  entries  into  cities,  and 
masquerades.  Galeazzo  Sforza,  Duke  of  Milan,  pays  a  visit 
to  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  and  takes  with  him,  besides  a  body- 
guard of  five  hundred  foot,  a  hundred  men-at-arms,  fifty 
servants  dressed  in  silk  and  silver,  two  thousand  gentle- 
men and  domestics  of  his  suite,  five  hundred  braces  of 
dogs  and  an  infinite  number  of  falcons,  and  his  jour- 
ney cost  him  two  hundred  thousand  gold  ducats.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  city  honours  him  with  three  public 


180  BOMS. 

spectacles .  one  an  '  Annunciation  of  the  Virgin,'  another, 
the  *  Ascension  of  Christ,'  and  the  last,  the  *  Descent  of 
the  Holy  Ghost.' — Cardinal  San-Sisto  expends  twenty 
thousand  ducats  on  a  single  fete  in  honour  of  the  Duchess 
of  Ferrara,  and  afterwards  makes  the  tour  of  Italy  with 
such  a  numerous  and  magnificent  cortege,  that  only  the 
pomp  of  his  brother  the  Pope  could  equal  it. — The 
Duchess  Lucretia  Borgia  enters  Rome  with  two  hundred 
ladies,  all  on  horseback,  each  magnificently  dressed,  and 
accompanied  with  a  cavalier. — At  Florence,  a  grand 
mythological  fete  is  gotten  up,  called  *  The  Triumph  of 
Camilla,'  with  innumerable  chariots,  banners,  escutcheons, 
and  triumphal  arches.  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  in  order  to 
augment  the  interest  of  the  spectacle,  requests  the  Pope 
to  send  him  an  elephant;  the  Pope  simply  sends  two 
leopards  and  a  panther;  he  would  himself  like  to  be 
present,  but  the  dignity  of  his  position  restrains  him; 
a  number  of  cardinals  more  fortunate  arrive  and  enjoy 
the  fete.  A  painter,  Piero  di  Cosimo,  with  his  friends, 
arrange  another  of  a  highly  lugubrious  order,  called 
'  The  Triumph  of  Death.'  This  is  a  car  drawn  by  black 
oxen,  on  which  are  painted  skulls,  bones,  and  crosses,  in 
white,  and  on  the  car  itself  a  figure  of  Death  with  his 
scythe,  the  car  containing  sepulchres,  from  which  arise 
skeleton  figures  who  chant  funereal  hymns  when  it  halts. 
Among  fifty  fetes  similar  to  this,  read  in  Vasari  the  de- 
scription of  that  which  signalises  the  commencement  of 
the  century ;  one  may  judge  by  its  brilliancy,  as  well  as 
by  its  details,  of  the  picturesque  tastes  which  then  filled 
all  breasts.  The  object  of  this  was  to  celebrate  the  advent 
of  Pope  Leo  X.  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  desiring  that  the 
Bronconi  confraternity,  of  which  he  was  the  chief,  should 
surpass  in  magnificence  that  of  the  Diamond,  ordered 
Jacopo  Nardi,  *  a  noble,  intelligent  man,'  to  compose  for 
him  six  cars.  Pontormo  painted  them,  and  Baccio  Ban- 


PHYSICAL  ACTION   AM)   PICTURESQUE   POMP.      18t 

cfc/tlli  decorated  them  with  sculpture.  All  the  wealth 
and  all  the  art  of  the  city  were  displayed  upon  them , 
every  invention  and  every  resource  of  luxury  and  of  recent 
discovery,  every  image  and  souvenir  of  the  history  of  an- 
cient poetry  contributed  to  their  embellishment.  Chargers, 
caparisoned  with  the  skins  of  lions  and  tigers,  with  hous- 
ings and  stirrups  of  gold  and  bridles  fringed  with  silver, 
advanced  in  long  procession ;  behind  them  followed  heifers 
and  mules  superbly  decked,  and  monstrous  fantastic 
buffaloes  disguised  as  elephants,  and  horses  travestied  as 
winged  griffins.  Shepherds  in  sable  and  ermine  skins  and 
crowned  with  garlands,  priests  in  antique  togas  bearing 
candelabra  and  vases  of  gold,  senators,  lictors,  and  knights 
in  gay  annour,  displaying  their  fasces  and  trophies,  and 
jurisconsults,  in  long  robes  on  horseback,  all  surrounded 
the  cars,  on  which  eminent  Roman  personages  appeared 
amid  the  insignia  of  their  offices  and  the  monuments  of  their 
exploits.  Through  their  proud  nudity,  valiant  attitudes, 
and  grand  flowing  drapery,  these  painted  and  sculptured 
forms  heightened  the  pagan  effect  of  this  pagan  proces- 
sion, and  taught  energy  and  joyousness  to  living  com- 
panions, who  to  the  clang  of  trumpets  and  the  accla- 
mations of  the  crowd  displayed  themselves  on  the  horses 
and  cars  around  them.  The  generous  sun,  shining  over- 
head, again  illuminated  a  world  similar  to  that  of  former 
days  in  the  same  place,  that  is  to  say,  the  same  deep 
sentiment  of  natural  poetic  joyousness,  the  same  bloom- 
ing physical  health  and  energy,  the  same  eternal  youth- 
ful inspiration,  and  the  same  triumphant  reverential  devo- 
tion to  beauty.  And  when  the  spectators,  after  witness- 
ing this  long  and  rich  array  of  splendid  accoutrements, 
these  rustling,  flowing  draperies,  the  bright  glitter  of  silver 
ecarfs,  the  yellow  reflections  of  golden  garlands  and  ara- 
besques, saw  the  last  car  approaching  with  its  pyramid 
of  living  figures,  and  above  these,  by  the  side  of  a  ver- 


183  ROME. 

dant  laurel,  a  naked  infant,  personifying  the  Renaissance 
of  the  golden  age,  well  might  they  believe  that  they  had 
for  a  moment  reanimated  the  noble  lost  antiquity,  and, 
after  a  winter  of  fifteen  centuries  were  again  beholding 
the  human  plant  flowering  in  all  its  grandeur. 

These  are  the  spectacles  then  daily  witnessed  in  an 
Italian  city;  such  the  luxurious  taste  of  princes,  cities, 
and  corporations.  The  humblest  artizan  devoted  his 
eyes,  his  hands,  and  his  heart  to  them.  Admiration  of 
fine  forms,  imposing  ceremony,  and  picturesque  decoration 
constituted  a  popular  sentiment.  The  carpenter  at  evening 
talked  to  his  wife  about  them,  and  they  were  discussed 
around  the  tables  of  taverns,  each  one  claiming  that  the 
decorations  on  which  he  had  laboured  were  the  most 
beautiful ;  each  one  with  his  own  preferences,  judgment, 
and  favourite  artist  as  nowadays,  the  pupils  of  a  painter's 
studio.  The  result  was  that  the  painter  and  the  sculptor 
addressed  not  merely  a  few  critics  but  the  entire  com- 
munity. What  now  remains  to  us  of  ancient  poetic 
pomp  ?  The  *  Descent  of  La  Courtille,'  *  with  its  foul 
yelling  drunkards,  and  the  procession  of  fat  oxen  in  which 
half-a-dozen  poor  fellows  shiver  in  flesh-coloured  '  tights,' 
amid  the  jokes  and  jeers  of  the  populace.  Picturesque  cus- 
toms are  now  reduced  to  two  street  parades,  and  athletic  life 
to  wrestling  at  fairs,  where  some  Herculean  clown  gets  ten 
cents  an  hour  to  turn  himself  inside  out  for  the  amusement 
of  soldiers  and  peasants.  These  customs  constitute  the 
vivifying  influences  which  everywhere  gave  birth  to  and 
developed  high  art.  They  have  disappeared,  and  hence 
our  inability  to  produce  the  same  results.  The  best  a 
painter  can  now  do  is  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  studio, 
and,  surrounding  himself  with  antique  vases,  nourishing 
himself  on  archaeology,  living  amidst  the  purest  models  of 
Greek  and  Renaissance  life  and  sequestrating  himself  from 

•  A  <ete  in  Pars  of  a  low  popular  character 


IMAGES   FILLING   THE   MIXD?   OF   THIS   EPOCH.       189 

all  modem  ideas,  by  dint  of  study  and  artifice,  create  foi 
himself  a  similar  atmosphere.  We  are  familiar  with  pro- 
digies of  tins  stamp,  such  as  an  Overbeck,  who,  through 
prayer,  fasting,  and  a  monastic  life  at  Rome,  imagines  he 
has  revived  the  mystical  forms  of  Fra  Angelico ;  a  Gothe 
who,  converted  into  a  pagan,  and  having  copied  antique* 
torsos  and  provided  himself  with  every  resource  which 
erudition,  philosophy,  observation,  and  genius  could  accu- 
mulate, succeeds  through  the  pliancy  and  universality  of 
the  most  cultivated  imagination  that  ever  existed  in 
mounting  on  a  German  pedestal  an  almost  Grecian 
Iphigenia.  With  a  skilfully-constructed  hot-house,  and 
well-contrived  heaters,  a  man  may  raise  and  ripen  oranges 
even  in  Normandy ;  but  the  hot-house  costs  an  immense 
sum,  and  out  of  ten  oranges  produced  nine  will  prove  acid 
abortions,— and,  if  you  offer  the  tenth  to  a  Normandy 
peasant,  he  will  at  heart  much  prefer  his  cider  and 
brandy. 

We  must  admit  that  a  singular  combination  of  things 
existed  in  those  days  ;  we  have  no  experience  of  the  same 
commingling  of  coarseness  and  culture,  of  a  swords- 
man's habits  with  the  tastes  of  the  antiquary,  of  the 
customs  of  bandits  with  the  conversations  of  a  man  of 
letters.  Man  then  is  in  a  transitional  state ;  he  is  issuing 
from  the  mediaeval  to  take  his  place  in  the  modern  epoch, 
or,  rather,  the  two  ages  are  at  their  confluence,  each  pene 
trating  the  other  in  the  most  wonderful  manner  and  with 
most  surprising  contrasts.  As  government  centralisation 
and  monarchical  loyalty  could  not  be  established  in  Italy, 
the  middle  ages,  through  private  feuds  and  appeals  to 
force,  lasted  there  longer  than  elsewhere.  In  Italy, 
the  race  being  precocious,  the  crust  of  the  Germanic  in- 
vasion could  only  partially  cover  it ;  the  modern  spirit 
developed  itself  earlier  there  than  elsewhere  through  the 
acquisition  of  wealth,  a  fertile  creative  power,  and  the  free- 


164  BOMB. 

dom  of  the  intellect.  They  are  farther  advanced,  and  at 
the  same  time  more  backward  than  other  peoples ;  more 
backward  in  the  sentiment  of  justice,  more  advanced  in 
the  sentiment  of  beauty,  and  their  taste  conforms  to 
their  condition.  Always  will  a  society  place  before  itself 
in  its  spectacles  the  objects  in  which  it  is  most  interested. 
Always  has  society  some  representative  figure  which  it 
reproduces  and  contemplates  in  its  art.  At  the  present 
day  this  figure  is  the  ambitious  plebeian  who  covets  the 
pleasures  of  Paris,  who  desires  to  descend  from  his  plain 
room  in  the  attic  to  a  luxurious  apartment  on  the  first 
floor ;  in  short,  the  parvenu,  the  labourer,  the  intriguer, 
the  business  man  on  'Change,  or  in  his  cabinet,  such  as  the 
romances  of  Balzac  portray.  In  the  seventeenth  century 
it  was  the  courtier,  versed  in  good  breeding  and  a  recusant 
in  all  domestic  matters,  the  fine  talker,  the  most  elegant, 
the  most  polished  and  adroit  of  men,  such  as  Kaciiie 
portrays,  and  as  the  romances  of  Mdlle.  de  Scudery  at- 
tempt to  show  him.  In  the  sixteenth  century  in  Italy  he 
is  the  sound  healthy  man,  well-proportioned  and  richly 
clothed,  energetic  and  capable,  such  as  its  painters 
represent  him  in  their  beautiful  attitudes.  The  Duke 
d'Urbino,  and  Caesar  Borgia,  and  Alphonso  d'Este,  and 
Leo  X.,  undoubtedly  listened  to  poets  and  men  of  thought, 
but  only  at  an  evening  entertainment,  while  diverting 
themselves  after  supper  in  some  villa,  surrounded  by 
colonnades  and  under  richly  decorated  ceilings.  Sub- 
stantially, however,  they  delight  in  that  which  ministers  to 
the  eye  and  the  body,  such  as  masquerades,  cavalcades, 
grand  architectural  forms,  the  imposing  air  of  statues  and 
of  painted  figures,  and  the  superb  decoration  every- 
where around  them.  Any  other  diversion  would  be 
insipid  to  them.  They  are  not  critics,  philosophers,  and 
frequenters  of  the  drawing-room  ;  they  require  something 
palpable  and  tangible.  If  you  doubt  this,  look  at  theii 


IMAGES  FILLING  THE  MINDS  OF  THIS  EPOCH.         188 

amusements,  those  of  Paul  II.,  who  ordered  races  before 
him  of  horses,  asses,  cattle,  children,  old  men  and  Jews 
'  crammed '  beforehand,  to  render  them  as  stupid  as 
possible,  and  '  who  laughed  to  split  his  sides ;  '  those 
of  Alexander  VI.,  which  cannot  be  described,  and  of 
Leo  X.,  who,  booted  and  spurred,  passed  the  season  in 
hunting  stags  and  wild  boars,  who  kept  a  monk  capable  of 
'  swallowing  a  pigeon  at  one  mouthful,  and  forty  eggs  in 
succession,'  who  was  served  at  table  with  dishes  in  the 
shape  of  monkeys  and  crows,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  sur- 
prise of  his  guests,  who  surrounded  himself  with  buffoons, 
who  had  '  La  Calandra '  and  *  La  Mandragora '  performed 
in  his  presence,  and  who  delighted  in  obscene  stories  and 
who  supported  parasites.  The  natural  finesse  of  such 
minds  employed  itself  on  the  subtleties,  not  of  senti- 
ments or  of  ideas,  but  of  colours  and  forms,  and,  to 
g.itisfy  them,  a  world  of  artists  is  seen  to  form  itself  around 
them,  chief  an>nngst  which  is  Michael  Angelo. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MICHAEL  ANGELO HIS   LIFE,  CHARACTER,  AND    WORKS — THE    SISTINE 

CHAPEL THE    LAST   JUDGMENT. 

THERE  are  four  men  in  the  world  of  art  and  of  literature 
exalted  above  all  others,  and  to  such  a  degree  as  to  seem 
to  belong  to  another  race,  namely,  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Beethoven,  and  Michael  Angelo.  Xo  profound  know- 
ledge, no  full  possession  of  all  the  resources  of  art,  no 
fertility  of  imagination,  no  originality  of  intellect,  sufficed 
to  secure  them  this  position,  for  these  they  all  had  ;  these, 
moreover,  are  of  secondary  importance ;  that  which  ele- 
vated them  to  this  rank  is  their  soul,  the  soul  of  a  fallen 
deity,  struggling  irresistibly  after  a  world  disproportionate 
to  our  own,  always  suffering  and  combating,  always  toiling 
and  tempestuous,  and,  as  incapable  of  being  sated  as  of 
sinking,  devoting  itself  in  solitude  to  erecting  before 
men  colossi  as  ungovernable,  as  vigorous,  and  as  sadly 
sublime  as  its  own  insatiable  and  impotent  desire. 

Michael  Angelo  is  thus  a  modern  spirit,  and  it  is  for 
this  reason,  perhaps,  that  we  are  able  to  comprehend  him 
without  effort.  Was  he  more  unfortunate  than  other 
men?  Regarding  things  externally,  it  seems  that  he  was 
not.  If  he  was  tormented  by  an  avaricious  family,  if  on 
two  or  three  occasions  the  caprice  or  the  death  of  a  patron 
prevented  the  execution  of  an  important  work,  designed 
or  commenced,  if  his  country  fell  into  servitude,  if 
minds  around  him  degenerated  or  became  weak,  all  these 
are  not  unusual  disappointments,  or  serious  and  painful 


MICHAEL  ANQELO.  187 

obstacles.  How  many  among  his  contemporary  artists 
experienced  greater  ?  Suffering,  however,  must  be  mea- 
sured by  inward  emotion,  and  not  by  out  ward  circumstance, 
and,  if  ever  a  spirit  existed  capable  of  transports  of  enthu- 
siasm and  tremors  of  indignation,  it  was  his.  He  was 
sensitive  to  excess,  and  therefore  'timid,'  lonely,  and  ill 
at  ease  in  the  petty  concerns  of  society,  and  to  such  an 
extent,  for  example,  that  he  could  never  bring  himself  to 
entertain  at  a  dinner.  Men  of  deep,  enduring  emotion, 
maintain  reserve  in  order  not  to  render  themselves  a  spec- 
tacle, falling  back  upon  introspection  for  lack  of  outward 
sympathy.  From  his  youth  up,  society  was  distasteful  to 
him ;  he  had  so  applied  himself  to  study  in  solitude,  as  to 
be  considered  proud  and  insane.  Later,  at  the  acme  of 
his  fame,  he  plunged  still  deeper  into  it ;  he  took  solitary 
walks,  was  served  by  one  domestic,  and  passed  entire 
weeks  on  scaffoldings  wholly  absorbed  in  self-communion. 
And  this  because  he  could  hold  converse  with  no  other 
mind.  Not  only  were  his  sentiments  too  powerful,  but 
again  they  were  too  exalted.  From  his  earliest  years  he 
cherished  a  passionate  love  for  all  noble  things,  and  first 
for  his  art,  to  which  he  gave  himself  up  entirely,  notwith- 
standing his  father's  brutality,  investigating  all  its  acces- 
sories with  compass  and  scalpel  in  hand,  and  with  such 
extraordinary  persistence  that  he  became  ill ;  and  next,  his 
self-respect,  which  he  maintained  at  the  risk  of  his  life, 
facing  imperious  popes  even  to  forcing  them  to  regard 
him  as  an  equal,  braving  them  'more  than  a  King  of 
France  would  have  done.'  He  held  ordinary  pleasures 
in  contempt ;  '  although  rich,  he  lived  as  a  poor  man ; ' 
frugally,  often  dining  on  a  crust  of  bread:  and  laboriously, 
treating  himself  severely,  sleeping  but  little,  and  often 
in  his  clothes,  without  luxury  of  any  kind,  without 
household  display,  without  care  for  money,  giving  awuy 
statues  and  pictures  to  his  friends,  20,<>00  francs  to  his  ser- 


X«8  ROME. 

vant,  30,000  ard  40,000  francs  at  once  to  his  nephew,  be« 
sides  countless  other  sums  to  the  rest  of  his  family.  A  nd 
more  than  this ;  he  lived  like  a  monk,  without  wife  or  mis- 
tress, chaste  in  a  voluptuous  court,  knowing  but  one  love 
and  that  austere  and  platonic,  and  for  one  woman  as  proud 
and  as  noble  as  himself,  At  evening,  after  the  labour  of 
the  day,  he  wrote  sonnets  in  her  praise  and  knelt  in  spirit 
before  her,  as  Dante  at  the  feet  of  Beatrice,  praying  to 
her  to  sustain  his  weaknesses  and  keep  him  in  the  ( right 
path.'  He  bowed  his  soul  before  her  as  before  an  angel 
of  virtue,  showing  the  same  fervid  exaltation  in  her  service 
as  that  of  the  mystics  and  knights  of  old.  He  felt  in  her 
beauty  a  revelation  of  divine  essence  ;  he  beheld  her  '  still 
enveloped  in  her  fleshly  covering  ascending  radiant  to  the 
bosom  of  God.'  f  He  who  has  an  affection  for  her,'  he 
said,  exalts  himself  to  heaven  by  faith,  and  death  becomes 
sweet.'  Through  her  he  attained  to  supreme  love ;  in  the 
prime  source  of  all  things  he  first  formed  his  affection  for 
her,  and  led  by  her  eyes  he  would  return  thence  with  her.* 
She  died  before  him,  and  for  a  long  time  he  remained 
*  downstricken,  as  if  deranged ; '  several  years  later, 
his  heart  still  cherished  a  great  grief,  the  regret  at  not 
having  on  her  deathbed  kissed  her  brow  or  cheek  instead 
of  her  hand.  The  rest  of  his  life  corresponds  with  such 
sentiments.  He  took  great  delight  in  the  '  arguments  oi 
learned  men,'  and  also  in  the  perusal  of  the  poets,  espe- 
cially Petrarch  and  Dante,  whom  he  almost  knew  by 
heart.  *  Would  to  heaven,'  he  one  day  wrote,  *  I  were 
such  as  he,  even  at  the  price  of  such  a  fate !  For  hii 
bitter  exile  and  his  virtue  I  would  exchange  the  most  for* 
lunate  lot  in  this  world ! '  The  books  he  preferred  were 
those  noted  for  an  imprint  of  grandeur,  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments,  and  especially  the  terribly  earnest  discourse* 

*  These  expressions  are  all  taken  from  Michael  Angelo's  sonnets. 


THE   SISTINE   CHAPEL.  181 

of  Savonarola,  his  master  and  friend,  whom  he  saw  attached 
to  the  pillory,  strangled  and  burnt,  and  whose  *  living 
word  would  always  remain  in  his  soul.'  A  man  who  feels 
and  lives  thus  knows  not  how  to  accommodate  himself  to 
this  life ;  he  is  too  different.  The  admiration  of  others 
produces  no  self-satisfaction.  '  He  disparaged  his  own 
works,  never  finding  that  his  hand  expressed  the  concep- 
tion formed  within.  One  day,  aged  and  decrepit,  some 
one  encountered  him  near  the  Colosseum  on  foot  and  in 
the  snow;  on  being  asked,  'Where  are  you  going?' 
'  To  school,'  he  replied,  '  to  try  and  learn  something.' 
Despair  seized  him  more  than  once  ;  having  hurt  his  leg. 
he  shut  himself  up  in  his  house  and  longed  for  death. 
Finally,  he  goes  so  far  as  to  separate  himself  from  himself, 
from  that  art  which  was  his  monarch  and  his  idol ;  '  pic- 
ture or  statue,  let  nothing  now  divert  my  soul  from 
that  divine  love  on  the  cross,  whose  arms  are  always  open 
to  receive  us  I '  The  last  sigh  of  a  great  soul  in  a  dege- 
nerate age,  and  among  an  enslaved  people!  Self-renun- 
ciation is  his  last  refuge.  For  sixty  years  his  works  do 
no  more  than  make  visible  the  heroic  combat  which  main- 
tained itself  in  his  breast  to  the  end. 

Superhuman  personages  as  miserable  as  ourselves, 
forms  of  gods  rigid  with  earthly  passion,  an  Olympus  ol 
jarring  human  tragedies,  such  is  the  sentiment  of  the 
ceiling  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  What  injustice  to  compare 
with  his  works  the  '  Sibyls '  and  the  <  Isaiah '  of  Raphael  I 
They  are  vigorous  and  beautiful,  I  admit,  and  I  do  noi 
dispute  that  they  testify  to  an  equally  profound  art ;  but 
ths  first  glance  suffices  to  show  that  they  have  not  the 
same  soul :  they  do  not  issue  like  these  from  an  impe- 
tuous, irresistible  will ;  they  have  never  experienced  like 
these  the  same  thrill  and  tension  of  a  nervous  being, 
concentrated  and  launching  itself  forth  at  the  risk  ot 
ruin.  There  are  souls  whose  impressions  flash  out  like 


190  ROME. 

lightning,  and  whose  actions  are  thunderbolts.  Such  are 
the  personages  of  Michael  Angelo.  His  colossal  Jere- 
miah, musing,  with  his  enormous  head  resting  on  his 
enormous  hand — on  what  does  he  muse  with  his  downcast 
ej  ea  ?  His  floating  beard  descending  in  curls  to  hia 
breast,  his  labourer's  hands  furrowed  with  swollen  veins, 
his  wrinkled  brow,  his  impenetrable  mask,  the  low  mutter 
about  to  burst  forth,  all  suggest  one  of  those  barbarian 
kings,  a  dark  hunter  of  the  urus,  coming  to  dash  his 
impotent  rage  against  the  gates  of  the  Roman  empire. 
Ezekiel  turns  around  suddenly,  with  an  impetuous  inter- 
rogation on  his  lips,  and  so  suddenly,  that  the  air  raises 
from  his  shoulder  a  portion  of  his  mantle.  The  aged 
Persica,  under  the  long  folds  of  her  falling  hood,  is  in- 
defatigably  reading  from  a  book  which  her  knotted 
hands  hold  up  to  her  penetrating  eyes.  Jonas  throws 
back  his  head,  appalled  at  the  frightful  apparition  before 
him,  his  fingers  involuntarily  counting  the  forty  days  that 
still  remain  to  Nineveh.  Lybia,  in  great  agitation,  des- 
cends, bearing  the  enormous  book  she  has  seized.  Ery- 
thraea  is  a  Pallas  of  a  haughtier  and  more  warlike  expres- 
sion than  her  antique  Athenian  sister.  Around  these,  on 
the  curve  of  the  arch,  appear  nude  adolescents  straining 
their  backs  and  displaying  their  limbs,  sometimes  proudly 
extended  and  reposing,  and  a«i;ain  struggling  or  darting 
forward,  while  some  are  shouting,  and  with  their  rigid 
thighs  and  grasping  feet  seem  to  be  furiously  attacking 
the  wall.  Beneath  is  an  old  stooping  pilgrim  seating 
himself,  a  woman  kissing  an  infant  wrapped  in  its  swad- 
dling clothes,  a  despairing  man  looking  obliquely  and 
bitterly  defying  destiny,  a  young  girl  with  a  beautiful 
Bmiling  face  tranquilly  sleeping ;  and  twenty  others,  the 
grandest  of  human  forms,  that  speak  in  all  the  detaila 
of  their  attitudes,  and  in  the  least  of  the  folds  of  their 
garment*. 


THE   SISTI5E   CHAPEL.  191 

These  are  simply  the  contours  of  the  arch.  The  arch 
itself,  two  hundred  feet  long,  displays  the  historical  record 
of  the  book  of  Genesis,  the  deliverance  of  Israel,  the 
creation  of  the  world,  of  man,  and  of  woman,  the  fall  and 
exile  of  the  first  couple,  the  deluge,  the  brazen  serpent, 
the  murder  of  Holophernes,  the  punishment  of  Haman — 
an  entire  population  of  figures  of  tragic  interest.  You 
lie  down  on  the  old  carpet  covering  the  floor  and  look  up. 
In  vain  are  they  a  hundred  feet  high,  smoked,  scaling  off 
and  crowded  to  suffocation,  and  so  remote  from  the  de- 
mands of  our  art,  our  age,  and  our  intellect — you  compre- 
hend them  at  once.  This  man  is  so  great,  that  differences 
of  time  and  of  nation  do  not  subsist  in  his  presence. 

The  difficulty  is  not  in  yielding  to  his  sway,  but  in 
accounting  for  it.  When,  after  your  ears  are  filled  with 
the  thunder  of  his  voice,  and  retiring  to  a  distance,  and 
in  repose,  so  that  only  its  reverberations  reach  you, 
and  when  reflection  has  succeeded  to  emotion,  and  you 
strive  to  discover  the  secret  by  which  he  renders  its  tones 
so  vibrating,  you  at  length  arrive  at  this, — he  possessed 
the  soul  of  Dante,  and  he  passed  his  life  in  the  study 
of  the  human  figure :  these  are  the  two  sources  of  his 
power.  The  human  form,  as  he  represents  it,  is  all  ex- 
pression, its  skeleton,  muscles,  drapery,  attitudes  and 
proportions ;  so  that  the  spectator  is  affected  simultane- 
ously by  all  parts  of  the  subject.  And  this  form  expresses 
energy,  pride,  audacity,  and  despair,  the  rage  of  un- 
governable passion  or  of  heroic  will,  and  in  such  a  way 
as  to  move  the  spectator  with  the  most  powerful  impres- 
sions. Moral  energy  emanates  from  every  physical  detail, 
and  we  feel  its  startling  reaction  corporeally  and  instan 
taneously. 

Look  at  Adam  asleep  near  Eve,  whom  Jehovah  has 
just  taken  from  his  side.  Never  was  creature  buried  in 
•ucb  profound,  deathlike  slumber.  His  enormous  body  a 


192  ROME. 

completely  relaxed,  and  its  enormity  only  renders  this  the 
more  striking.  On  awaking,  those  pendant  arms,  those 
inert  thighs,  will  crush  some  lion  in  their  embrace.  In 
the  '  Brazen  Serpent'  the  man  with  a  snake  coiled  round 
his  waist,  and  tearing  it  off,  with  arm  bent  back  and  hia 
body  distorted  as  he  extends  his  thigh,  suggests  the  strife 
between  primitive  mortals  and  the  monsters  whose  slimy 
forms  ploughed  the  antediluvian  soil.  Masses  of  bodies, 
intermingled  one  with  the  other  and  overthrown  with 
their  heels  in  the  air,  with  arms  bent  like  bows  and  with 
convulsive  spines,  quiver  in  the  toils  of  the  serpents; 
hideous  jaws  crush  skulls  and  fasten  themselves  on  howl- 
ing lips ;  with  hair  on  end  and  their  mouths  open  miserable 
beings  tremble  on  the  ground,  wildly  and  furiously  kicking 
in  the  midst  of  the  heaps  of  humanity  around  them.  A 
man,  who  thus  handles  the  skeleton  and  muscles,  puts  rage, 
will,  and  terror  into  the  fold  of  a  thigh,  the  projection  of 
a  shoulder-blade,  and  the  flexions  of  tht>  vertebra ;  in 
his  hands  the  whole  human  animal  is  impassioned,  active, 
and  combatant.  What  contemptible  mannikins  in  com- 
parison are  the  tame  frescoes,  the  lifeless  processions, 
allowed  to  remain  beneath  his  I  They  subsist  like  the 
ancient  marks  on  the  quay  of  a  river,  by  which  one  sees 
•what  torrents  have  arisen  there  and  overflowed  its  banks. 
Alone,  since  the  Greeks,  he  knew  the  full  value  of  all 
the  members.  With  him,  as  with  them,  the  body  lives  by 
itself,  and  is  not  subordinated  to  the  head.  By  dint  of 
genius  and  solitary  study,  he  rediscovered  that  sentiment 
of  the  nude  with  which  their  gymnastic  life  imbued  them. 
Before  his  seated  Eve,  who  turns  half  around  with  her 
foot  bent  under  her  thigh,  you  imagine  involuntarily  the 
spring  of  the  leg  which  is  to  raise  that  noble  form  erect. 
Before  his  Eve  and  Adam  expelled  from  Paradise  nobody 
thinks  of  looking  to  the  face  to  find  grief;  it  is  the  entire 
torso,  the  active  limbs,  the  human  frame  with  the  setting 


THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL.  19* 

of  its  internal  parts,  the  solidity  of  its  Herculean  supports, 
the  friction  and  play  of  its  moving  joints,  the  ensemble,  in 
short,  which  strikes  you.  The  head  enters  into  it  only  as 
a  portion  of  the  whole  ;  you  stand  motionless,  absorbed  in 
contemplating  thighs  that  sustain  such  trunks  and  in- 
domitable arms  that  are  to  subject  the  hostile  earth. 

But  what  to  my  taste  surpass  all,  are  the  twenty 
youthful  figures  seated  on  the  cornices  at  the  four  corners 
of  each  fresco,  a  veritable  painted  sculpture  that  gives  one 
an  idea  of  a  superior  and  unknown  world.  These  are  all 
adolescent  heroes  of  the  time  of  Achilles  and  Ajax,  as  noble 
in  race,  but  more  ardent  and  of  fiercer  energy.  Here  are 
the  grand  nudities,  the  superb  movements  of  the  limbs, 
and  the  raging  activity  of  Homer's  conflicts,  but  with  a 
more  vigorous  spirit  and  a  more  courageous,  bold,  and 
manly  will.  Nobody  would  suppose  that  the  various  atti- 
tudes of  the  human  figure  could  affect  the  mind  with  such 
diverse  emotions.  The  hips  support,  the  breast  respires,  the 
entire  covering  of  flesh  strains  and  quivers ;  the  trunk  is 
thrown  back  over  the  thighs,  and  the  shoulder,  ridged  with 
muscles,  is  going  to  raise  the  impetuous  arm.  One  of  them 
falls  backward  and  draws  his  grand  drapery  over  his  thigh, 
whilst  another,  with  his  arm  over  his  brow,  seems  to  be 
parrying  a  blow.  Others  sit  pensive,  and  meditating,  with 
all  their  limbs  relaxed.  Several  are  running  and  springing 
across  the  cornice,  or  throwing  themselves  back  and  shout- 
ing. Three  among  them,  above  the  'Ezekiel'  the  'Persica* 
and  the  '  Jeremiah,'  are  incomparable ;  and  one  especially, 
the  noblest  of  all,  as  calm  and  intelligent  as  a  god,  gazes 
with  his  elbow  resting  on  some  fruit,  and  his  hand  resting  on 
his  knee.  You  feel  that  they  are  going  to  move  and  to  act, 
and  that  you  would  like  to  maintain  them  before  you  con- 
stantly in  the  same  attitude.  Nature  has  produced  nothing 
like  them ;  thus  ought  she  to  have  fashioned  us ;  here 
would  she  find  all  types :  giants  and  heroes,  alongside  of 
O 


194  ROME. 

modest  virgins  and  youths  and  sporting  children;  that 
charming  Eve,  so  young  and  so  proud ;  that  beautiful 
Delphica,  similar  to  a  primitive  nymph,  who  turns  her  eyes 
filled  with  innocent  astonishment — all  sons  and  daughters, 
of  a  colossal  militant  race,  but  to  whom  their  century  has 
preserved  the  smile,  the  serenity,  the  pure  joyousness,  the 
grace  of  the  Oceanides  of  yEschylus,  and  of  the  Nausicaa 
of  Homer.  The  soul  of  an  artist  contains  within  itself  an 
ntire  world,  and  that  of  Michael  Angelo  is  here  un- 
ited. 

He  had  given  it  expression,  and  he  ought  not  to  have  re- 
produced it.  His  '  Last  Judgment,'  near  by  this,  does  not 
produce  the  same  impression.  The  painter  was  then  in 
his  sixty-seventh  year,  and  his  inspiration  was  no  longei 
as  fresh.  After  having  long  brooded  over  his  ideas  he 
has  a  better  hold  of  them,  but  they  cease  to  excite  him ; 
he  has  exhausted  the  original  sensation,  the  only  true  one, 
and  he  exaggerates  and  copies  himself.  Here  he  intention- 
ally enlarges  the  body,  and  inflates  the  muscles;  he  is  pro- 
digal of  foreshortenings  and  violent  postures,  converting  his 
personages  into  well-fed  athletes  and  wrestlers  engaged 
in  displaying  their  strength.  The  angels  who  bear  away 
the  cross  clutch  each  other,  throw  themselves  backward, 
clench  their  fists,  strain  their  thighs,  and  gather  up  their 
feet  as  in  a  gymnasium.  The  saints  toss  about  with  the 
insignia  of  their  martyrdom,  as  if  each  sought  to  attract 
attention  to  his  strength  and  agility.  Souls  in  purgatory, 
saved  by  cowl  and  rosary,  are  extravagant  models  that 
might  serve  for  a  school  of  anatomy.  The  artist  had  just 
entered  on  that  period  of  life  when  sentiment  vanishes 
before  science,  when  the  mind  especially  delights  in  over- 
coming difficulties.  As  it  is,  however,  this  work  is  unique ; 
it  is  like  a  declamatory  speech  in  the  mouth  of  an  old 
warrior,  with  a  rattling  drum  accompaniment.  Some  of 
the  figures  and  groups  aie  worthy  of  his  grandest  efforts. 


THE   LAST  JUDGMENT.  19,1 

The  powerful  Eve,  who  maternally  presses  one  of  her 
horror-stricken  daughters  to  her  side ;  the  aged  and  for- 
midable Adam,  an  antediluvian  Colossus,  the  root  of  the 
great  tree  of  humanity ;  the  bestial  carnivorous  demons ; 
the  figure  among  the  damned  that  covers  his  face  with  his 
arm  to  avoid  seeing  the  abyss  into  which  he  is  plunging ; 
that  in  the  coils  of  a  serpent  rigid  with  horror,  as  if  a 
stone  statue ;  and  especially  that  terrible  Christ,  like  the 
Jupiter  in  Homer  overthrowing  the  Trojans  and  their 
chariots  on  the  plain ;  also,  by  his  side,  almost  concealed 
under  his  arm,  that  timorous,  shrinking  young  virgin,  so 
noble  and  so  delicate, —  all  form  a  group  of  conceptions 
equal  to  those  of  the  ceiling.  These  animate  the  whole 
design.  We  cease  to  feel  the  abuse  of  art,  the  aim  at 
effect,  the  domination  of  mannerism;  we  only  see  the 
disciple  of  Dante,  the  friend  of  Savonarola,  the  recluse 
feeding  himself  on  the  menaces  of  the  Old  Testament,  the 
patriot,  the  stoic,  the  lover  of  justice  who  bears  in  his 
heart  the  grief  of  his  people  and  who  attends  the  funeral  of 
Italian  liberty,  one  who,  amidst  degraded  characters  and 
degenerate  minds,  alone  survives  and  daily  becomes  sadder, 
passing  nine  years  at  this  immense  work,  his  soul  filled 
with  thoughts  of  the  supreme  Judge  and  listening  before- 
hand to  the  thunders  of  the  last  day 


BOOK  IT, 

VILLAS.  PALACES,  AND   CHURCHES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

rffE  ITALIAN  GRAND  SEIGNEUK  OF   THE   SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY THI 

MANNERS   OF   THE    PALACE     AND   THE    ANTE-CHAMBER THE    VILLA 

ALBANI THE  VILLA  BORGHESE. 

NOTHING  has  interested  me  more  in  these  Roman  villas 
than  their  former  masters.  As  naturalists  are  aware, 
one  obtains  a  pretty  good  idea  of  an  animal  from  hia 
shell. 

The  place  where  I  began  to  comprehend  him  is  the 
Villa  Albani^  erected  in  the  eighteenth  century  for 
Cardinal  Alexander  Albani,  and  according  to  his  own 
plans.  What  you  at  once  detect  here  is  the  grand  seigneur 
courtier,  after  the  fashion  of  our  nobles  of  the  seventeenth 
century.  There  are  differences,  but  the  two  tastes  are 
kindred.  What  they  prize  above  all  things  is  art  and 
artistic  order  ;  nothing  is  left  to  nature ;  all  is  artificial. 
Water  flows  only  in  jets  and  in  spray,  and  has  no  othef 
bed  but  basins  and  urns.  Grass-plots  are  enclosed  withiu 
enormous  box-hedges,  higher  than  a  man's  head,  and 
thick  as  walls,  and  are  shaped  in  geometrical  triangles,  the 
points  of  which  terminate  in  a  centre.  In  front  stretches  a 
dense  palisade  lined  with  small  cypresses.  You  ascend  from 
one  garden  to  another  by  broad  stone  steps,  similar  to 
those  at  Versailles.  Flower-beds  are  er/jlosed  in  little 


ITALIAN  SIGXOE  OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.     197 

frames  of  box,  and  form  designs  resembling  well-bordered 
carpets,  regularly  variegated  with  shades  of  colour.  This 
villa  is  a  fragment,  the  fossil  skeleton  of  an  organism  that 
lived  two  hundred  years,  its  chief  pleasure  being  conver- 
sation, fine  display,  and  the  manners  of  the  salon  and 
ante-chamber.  Man  was  not  then  interested  in  inanimate 
objects ;  he  did  not  recognise  in  them  a  spirit  and  beauty 
of  their  own ;  he  regarded  them  simply  as  an  appendix  to 
his  own  existence ;  they  served  as  a  background  to  the 
picture,  and  a  vague  one,  of  less  than  accessory  im- 
portance. His  attention  was  wholly  absorbed  by  the 
picture  itself,  that  is  to  say,  by  its  human  drama  and  in- 
trigue. In  order  to  divert  some  portion  of  attention  to 
trees,  water,  and  landscape,  it  was  necessary  to  humanise 
them,  to  deprive  them  of  their  natural  forms  and  ten- 
dencies, of  their  savage  aspect,  of  a  disorderly  desert  air, 
and  to  endow  them  as  much  as  possible  with  the  air  of  a 
salon,  or  a  colonnade  gallery,  or  a  grand  palatial  court. 
The  landscapes  of  Poussin  and  Claude  Lorraine  all  bear 
this  imprint.  They  are  architectural  constructions — the 
scenery  is  painted  for  courtiers  who  wished  to  reinstate 
the  court  on  their  own  domain.  It  is  curious,  in  this 
relation,  to  compare  the  island  of  Calypso  in  Homer  with 
that  of  Fcnelon.  In  Homer  we  have  a  veritable  island, 
wild  and  rocky,  where  sea-birds  build  their  nests  and 
screech  ;  in  Fenelon  a  sort  of  Marly, f  arranged  to  please 
the  eye.'  Thus  do  the  English  gardens  as  now  imported 
by  us  indicate  the  advent  of  another  race,  the  reign  of 
another  taste  and  literature,  the  ascendency  of  another 
mind,  more  comprehensive,  more  solitary,  more  easily 
fatigued,  and  more  devoted  to  the  world  within. 

A  second  remark  is  this,  that  our  grand  seigneur  is  un 
antiquary.  Besides  two  galleries,  and  a  circular  portico 
filled  with  antique  statues,  there  are  pieces  of  sculpture  of 
everv  description  scattered  about  the  gardens  :  caryatides, 


198  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

torsos,  colossal  busts,  gods,  columns  topped  with 
urns,  lions,  huge  vases,  pedestals,  and  other  innumer- 
able remains,  often  broken  or  mutilated.  In  order  to 
turn  everything  to  account,  a  wall  is  frequently  encrusted 
with  quantities  of  shapeless  fragments.  Some  of  these 
sculptures,  such  as  a  caryatides,  a  mask  of  Antinous,  and 
certain  statues  of  emperors  are  fine ;  but  the  greater  part 
forms  a  singular  collection.  Many  of  them  belonged, 
evidently,  to  small  municipalities  and  private  dwellings ; 
they  are  workshop  stock,  already  familiar  to  the  ancients, 
and  the  same  as  would  subsist  with  us,  if  after  a  long 
period  of  inhumation  our  stairway  statues  and  hotel  de 
ville  busts  should  be  discovered ;  they  may  be  regarded 
as  museum  documents  rather  than  as  works  of  art.  No 
house  is  thus  decorated  except  through  pedantry  ;  bric-a- 
brac  forms  the  taste  of  an  old  man,  and  is  the  last  that  sub- 
sisted in  Italy.  Literature  being  dead,  there  still  existed 
dissertations  on  vases  and  coins ;  among  gallant  sonnets 
and  academical  phrases,  when  all  intellectual  effort  was  in- 
terdicted or  paralysed  in  the  grand  void  of  the  last  century, 
the  taste  of  former  days  and  the  curiosity  of  archaeologists 
were  still  preserved,  as  in  the  times  of  Politian  and 
Lorenzo  de' Medici.  This  sort  of  employment  diverts  minds 
from  serious  questions ;  an  absolute  prince  or  a  cardinal 
may  well  favour  it,  and  thus  occupy  his  leisure  hours  ;  he 
may  assume  the  air  of  a  connoisseur,  or  of  a  Maecenas  and 
merit  dedicatory  epistles,  mythological  frontispieces,  and 
Latin  and  Italian  superlatives. 

A  third  point,  no  less  visible,  is  this  :  our  seigneur  anti- 
quary is  Italian,  a  man  of  the  south.  This  architecture  ia 
adapted  to  the  climate.  Many  of  our  structures  imitated 
during  our  classic  centuries,  and  absurd  under  our  skies,  are 
reasonable  here,  and  accordingly  beautiful.  First  is  the 
grand  portico  with  open  arcades ;  windows  are  unneces- 
sary, and  it  is  even  better  to  be  without  them ;  it  is  a 


ITALIAN  SIGNOR  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.       199 

promenade,  and  especially  one  in  which  to  enjoy  frest 
breezes.  It  is  proper,  too,  to  have  every  thing  of  marble ,  in 
the  north  we  would  feel  cold  through  the  imagination 
alone;  we  would  involuntarily  recur  to  curtains,  rings, 
heaters,  carpets,  the  entire  apparatus  indispensable  to 
physical  comfort  A  duke,  on  the  contrary,  or  a  prelate 
in  his  purple  robe,  in  state,  and  surrounded  b?  his 
gentlemen,  is  just  where  he  should  be  to  discuss  political 
affairs  or  to  listen  to  the  reading  of  sonnets.  From 
time  to  time,  on  his  majestic  promenade,  he  may  bestow  a 
glance  on  statues  and  emperors'  busts,  and  descant  on 
them  as  a  latinist  and  politician,  earnestly  interested  in 
their  lives  and  images,  through  a  sort  of  relationship 
belonging  to  the  right  of  succession.  He  is  again  well 
placed  here  to  receive  artists,  patronise  debutants,  and  to 
order  and  examine  architectural  plans.  If  he  enters  an 
avenue,  it  is  so  wide  and  smooth,  that  his  robe  is  not 
likely  to  be  caught,  besides  furnishing  plenty  of  space  for 
his  train  of  attendants.  The  garden  and  buildings  are 
admirable  for  an  out-of-door  levee. 

The  prospects  and  landscape  vistas  obtained  at  the 
ends  of  the  galleries,  thus  framed  in  by  columns,  are  of 
the  game  taste.  The  superb  ilex  rises  above  a  terrace, 
with  its  monstrous  pilasters  and  evergreen  dome  of  monu- 
mental foliage.  Avenues  of  sycamores  diverge  in  rows 
shaped  like  porticoes.  Lofty  solemn  cypresses  clasp  their 
knotty  branches  against  their  grey  trunks  and  rise  in 
the  air  gravely  and  monotonously  like  pyramids.  The 
aloe  stretches  itself  against  a  white  wall,  its  strange  trunk 
scaled  and  tortuous  like  a  serpent  writhing  in  convulsions. 
Ley  end,  outside  the  garden,  on  a  neighbouring  hill-side, 
a  confused  mass  of  structures  and  pines  elevate  them- 
selves, rising  and  falling  according  to  the  surface  of  the 
ground.  On  the  horizon  runs  the  sharp  broken  line 
of  the  mountains,  one  of  which,  blue  like  a  heavy  rain 


200  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

cloud,  rises  triangularly  and  shuts  off  a  portion  of  the  sky 
From  this  the  eye  reverts  back  to  the  series  of  arcades 
forming  the  circular  portico,  to  the  balustrades  and 
statues  diveisifying  the  crest  of  the  roof,  to  columns 
scattered  here  and  there,  and  to  the  squares  and  circles  of 
the  hedges  and  fish-pools.  Surrounded  by  this  mountain 
frame  the  landscape  is  precisely  like  that  of  Perelle, 
and  it  corresponds  with  an  intellectual  state  of  things, 
of  which  a  modern  man,  and  especially  a  northern  man, 
has  no  idea.  People  nowadays  are  more  delicate,  less 
capable  of  relishing  painting,  and  more  capable  of  relish- 
ing music ;  men  in  those  days  had  coarser  nerves,  and 
senses  more  alive  to  external  objects ;  they  did  not  feel 
the  spirit  of  outward  objects,  but  readily  appreciated 
their  forms.  A  well-selected  and  well-arranged  land- 
scape pleased  them  the  same  as  a  lofty  and  spacious  apart- 
ment, solidly  constructed,  and  handsomely  decorated ;  this 
sufficed  for  them ;  they  never  held  a  conversation  with  a 
tree. 

On  the  first  story,  and  from  the  large  marble  balcony, 
the  mountain  in  front  seems  like  an  edifice,  a  veritable 
piece  of  architecture.  Below,  you  see  ladies  and  visitors 
promenading  the  compartments  of  the  alleys ;  give  them 
brocade  silk  skirts,  velvet  coats,  lace  frills,  and  a  nobler 
and  easier  deportment,  and  you  would  behold  a  court  as  it 
defiled  before  and  lived  indolently  under  the  eye,  and  at 
the  expense  of  a  grand  seignor.  He  needed  it  in  order  to 
impress  others  with  his  importance,  also  to  protect  him- 
self from  enemies;  only  in  these  days  has  man  learned 
to  live  by  himself,  or  alone  with  his  family.  The 
grand  saloon,  likewise,  wainscotted  and  decorated  with 
marble,  adorned  with  columns,  bas-reliefs,  great  vases,  and 
gilded  and  painted  in  fresco,  is  the  most  beautifully 
arranged  place  for  a  reception.  One  can  recompose 
without  much  effort  of  the  imagination  the  ertire  scene 


THE   VILLA  ALBANL  20! 

with  all  its  personages.  Here  and  there,  awaiting  the 
master,  are  amateurs  and  abbes  discussing  and  examining 
the  merits  of  pictures.  Their  eyes  look  upward  at  the 
*  Parnassus '  of  Mcngs ;  they  compare  it  with  that  of 
Raphael  and  thus  furnish  evidences  of  culture  and  good 
taste ;  they  avoid  dangerous  converse  and  may  depart 
without  being  compromised.  Alongside,  in  small  saloons, 
are  others  contemplating  a  superb  bas-relief  of  Antinous 
— that  breast  so  vigorous,  those  manly  lips,  that  air  of 
the  valiant  wrestler ;  and,  farther  on,  an  admirable  pale 
Cardinal  by  Domenichino,  and  the  two  little  bacchanals, 
so  animated,  by  Giulio  Romano.  People  still  comprehend 
these;  traditions  are  still  maintained;  new  intellectual 
views — a  rhetorical,  philosophical  culture — have  not  yet 
effaced,  as  in  France,  the  manners,  customs,  and  ideas 
of  the  sixteenth  century ;  assassinations  are  still  common, 
and  the  streets  in  the  evening  are  by  no  means  safe. 
Whilst,  in  France,  the  boudoir  painters  reign,  Mengs  ia 
here  imitating  the  Renaissance,  and  Winckelmann  is 
reviving  the  antique.  They  appreciate  their  works  and 
those  of  the  great  masters ;  patient  attendance  in  ante- 
chambers, the  emptiness  of  prudent  conversation,  the 
dangers  of  unreserved  gaiety  and  a  mutual  distrust 
have  augmented  sensibility  while  hindering  its  expan- 
sion. There  is  still  a  place  in  man  for  strong  impressions. 

How  remote  these  habits  and  sentiments  from  our 
own  !  How  refined  culture,  widely  diffused  wealth,  and 
an  effective  police  have  laboured  amongst  us  to  leave  of 
man  no  master  intellect  but  that  of  the  Bohemian,  the 
nervous  ambitious  being  of  Musset  and  of  Heine  I 

I  prolonged  my  walk  two  miles  beyond  this.  There 
are  quantities  of  grand  villas  decked  with  ridiculous 
ruins  expressly  manufactured  for  them,  and  many  duly 
modernised ;  opposite  styles  contend  with  each  other ; 
it  is  not  worth  one's  trouble  to  enter  these  villas, 


202  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AM)   CHURCHES. 

Other  structures,  more  commonplace,  afford  glimpses  01 
groves  of  palms,  and  of  the  cactus  and  white  rushes  scat- 
tered about  among  flowing  fountains — nothing  can  be  more 
graceful  and  original.  The  poorest  inns  contain  in  their 
courts  large  spreading  trees,  or  thick  trellises  overhead 
forming  roofs  of  verdure.  You  drink  bad  wine,  yellow 
and  sweet,  but  your  eyes  dwell  on  landscapes  of  delicate 
tints,  bordered  with  the  long  blue  mountains,  budding  ver- 
dure, white  almond  trees,  elegant  outlines  of  brown  and 
grey  foliage,  and  a  sky  flecked  with  soft  vapoury  clouds. 

Villa  Borghese. — I  have  not  much  to  say  to  you  of  the 
other  villas :  they  suggest  similar  ideas ;  the  same  way  of 
living  produced  the  same  tastes.  Some  of  them  are  grander, 
more  rural,  and  on  a  larger  scale,  and  among  them  is  the 
Villa  Borghese.  You  reach  it  through  the  Piazzo  del 
Popolo.  This  square,  with  its  churches,  obelisks,  and 
fountains,  and  the  monumental  steps  of  the  Pincio,  is  both 
peculiar  and  beautiful. 

I  am  always  mentally  comparing  these  monuments 
with  those  of  Paris,  to  which  I  am  accustomed.  You 
find  here  less  space  and  stonework,  less  material 
grandeur  than  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  in  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe :  but  more  invention,  and  more  t«» 
interest  you. 

The  Villa  BorghSse  is  a  vast  park  four  miles  in  cir- 
cumference, with  buildings  of  all  kinds  scattered  over  it 
At  the  entrance  is  an  Egyptian  portico,  in  the  poorest 
pcsc&le  taste — some  modern  importation.  The  interior 
ia  more  harmonious,  and  quite  classical.  Here  is  a  little 
temple,  there  a  peristyle,  further  on  a  ruined  colonnade,  a 
portico,  balustrades,  large  round  rases,  and  a  sort  of  amphi- 
theatre. The  undulating  surface  rises  and  falls  in  beauti- 
ful meadows,  red  with  the  delicate  trembling  anemone. 
Italian  pines,  purposely  separated,  display  their  elegant 
forms  and  stately  heads  in  profile  against  the  white  sky ; 


THE   VILLA   BORGHfiSE.  203 

fountains  murmur  at  every  turn  of  the  avenues,  and  in 
email  valleys  grand  old  oaks,  still  naked,  send  up  their 
valiant,  heroic,  antique  forms.  I  was  born  and  nurtured 
in  the  north ;  you  can  imagine  how  the  sight  of  these  trees 
dissipated  all  the  beauties  of  Rome  ;  how  its  churches  and 
structures  vanished  before  these  gnarled  old  trunks, 
the  mighty  combatants  of  my  cherished  forests,  now 
reviving  under  the  moist  winds,  and  already  putting 
forth  their  buds.  They  refresh  one  delightfully  in  this 
world  of  monuments  and  stone.  All  that  is  human  is 
limited,  and  on  this  account  wearies ;  lines  of  buildings 
are  always  rigid ;  a  statue  or  picture  is  never  aught  but 
a  spectre  of  the  past ;  the  sole  objects  that  afford  unalloyed 
pleasure  are  nature's  objects,  forming  and  transforming, 
which  live,  and  the  substance  of  which  is,  so  to  say,  fluid. 
You  remain  here  entire  afternoons  contemplating  the 
ilex,  the  vague,  bluish  tint  of  its  verdure,  its  rich 
rotundity,  as  ample  as  that  of  the  trees  of  England ;  there 
is  an  aristocracy  here  as  there ;  only  can  grand  hereditary 
estates  save  beautiful  useless  trees  from  the  axe.  By 
the  side  of  these  rise  the  pines,  erect  like  columns,  bearing 
aloft  their  noble  canopies  in  the  tranquil  azure ;  the  eye 
never  wearies  in  following  those  round  masses,  com- 
mingling and  receding  in  the  distance,  in  watching  the 
gentle  tremor  of  their  leaves  and  the  graceful  inclina- 
tion of  so  many  noble  heads,  dispersed  here  and  tbtre 
through  the  transparent  atmosphere.  At  intervals,  a 
poplar,  ruddy  with  blossoms,  sends  up  its  vacillating 
pyramid.  The  sun  is  slowly  declining;  gleams  of  ruddy 
light  illumine  the  grey  trunks,  and  the  green  slopes  are 
sprinkled  with  blooming  daisies.  The  sun  sinks  lower 
and  lower,  and  the  palace  windows  flash,  and  the  heads  of 
statues  are  lit  up  with  mysterious  flames,  while  from  the 
distance  one  catches  the  faint  music  of  Bellini's  aim 
borne  along  at  intervals  by  the  swelling  breeze. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

VSK  YILLA  LUDOYISI— STATUES— THE  AURORA  OF  GUERCrNO— I,i»t>- 

EC  APES — NEPOTISM  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY — THE  DEC'AT  ENCB 
OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENT  DRY — THE  PALACE  AT  THE  PRESENT  DAY. 

ALL  these  villas  have  their  collections  of  antiques.  That 
of  the  villa  Ludovisi  is  one  of  the  finest;  a  pavilion 
has  been  expressly  erected  to  contain  it.  Since  the  days 
of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  the  possession  of  antiquities  here 
has  been  a  compulsory  luxury,  a  complement  of  every 
great  aristocratic  life.  Accordingly,  on  regarding  things 
closely,  you  perceive  throughout  the  history  of  modern 
Rome  a  souvenir,  a  continuation  as  it  were  of  antique 
Rome ;  the  Pope  is  a  sort  of  spiritual  Caesar,  and,  in  many 
points,  the  people  who  live  beyond  the  Alps  are  always 
barbarians.  We  have  been  able  only  to  renew  the  chain 
of  tradition ;  with  them  this  chain  has  never  been  broken, 
I  have  notes  on  all  this  gallery ;  but  I  will  not  over- 
whelm you  with  notes 

There  is  a  head  of '  Juno,  Queen,'  possessing  a  grandeur 
and  seriousness  altogether  sublime.  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  is  anything  superior  to  it  in  Rome. 

I  noticed  a  seated  *  Mars,'  with  his  hands  crossed  on  his 
knees,  and  a  nude  '  Mercury.'  But  I  cannot  repeat  what 
[  have  already  written  you  on  this  sculpture ;  what  you 
feel  for  the  twentieth  time  is  the  serenity  of  a  beautiful, 
complete  existence,  well-balanced,  in  which  the  brain  is  not 
an  oppressor  of  the  rest  of  the  body.  In  vain  you  admire 
Michael  Angelo,  and  heartily  give  him  your  sympathy 
as  to  a  mighty  heroic  tragedy ;  you  say  to  yourself  r«« 


THE   VILLA   LUDOVISI.  205 

peatedly  that  this  wonderful  calmness  is  more  beautiful, 
because  it  is  healthier.  The  torso  of  this  Mercury  scarcely 
ehows  any  modelling — you  simply  see  the  line  of  the 
pelvis ;  instead  of  muscles  in  activity  the  sculptor  has 
represented  only  the  human  form,  and  that  suffices  for  the 
spectator. 

A  modern  group,  by  Bernini,  called  *  Pluto  bearing  off 
Proserpine,'  affords  a  striking  contrast.  The  head  of 
Pluto  is  vulgarly  gay ;  his  crown  and  beard  give  him  a 
ridiculous  air,  while  the  muscles  are  strongly  marked  and 
the  figure  poses.  It  is  not  a  true  divinity,  but  a  decorative 
god,  like  those  at  Versailles — a  mythological  figurant 
striving  to  catch  the  attention  of  connoisseurs  and  the  king. 
Proserpine's  body  is  very  effeminate,  very  pretty,  and  very 
contorted ;  but  there  is  too  much  expression  in  the  face ; 
its  eyes,  its  tears,  and  its  little  mouth  are  too  attractive. 

The  weather  was  perfectly  beautiful,  the  sky  of  a  cloud- 
less blue,  and  the  more  charming  that  for  the  last  eight 
days  we  had  no  rain  and  no  mud ;  but  an  effort  was  ne- 
cessary in  order  to  see  anything,  so  depressed  was  I  by 
the  death  of  our  poor  friend  Woepke. 

The  villa,  however,  is  charming ;  its  fields,  intact  and 
refreshed  by  the  rains,  sparkled;  the  blooming  laurel  hedge, 
the  oak  forests  and  the  avenues  of  old  cypress  trees  cheered 
and  revived  one's  spirit  with  their  grace  and  grandeur. 
This  kind  of  landscape  is  unique ;  you  find  the  vegetation 
of  all  climates  mingled  and  grouped  together;  on  one 
Bide  are  knots  of  palms,  and  the  grand  featheiy  cane 
shooting  up  like  a  wax-taper  from  its  nest  of  glittering 
leaves ;  beyond,  a  poplar  and  enormous  grey  naked  chestnut 
trees,  just  beginning  to  blossom.  And  a  still  more  peculiar 
sight  is  the  old  walls  of  Rome,  a  veritable  natural  ruin,  that 
serves  as  an  enclosure.  Hot-houses  are  supported  against 
red  arcades ;  lemon  trees  in  pale  rows  hug  the  disjointed 
bricks,  and  in  the  vicinity  fresh  green  grass  \s>  growing 


508  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

abundantly ;  from  time  to  time  you  detect  from  some 
elevation  the  outermost  circle  of  the  horizon  and  the  blue 
mountains  varied  by  snow.  All  this  exists  within  Rome. 
Nobody  comes  here,  and  I  do  not  even  know  if  anyone 
lives  here.  Rome  is  a  museum  and  a  sepulchre  where 
past  forms  of  life  subsist  in  silence. 

You  reach  the  large  central  pavilion  and  enter  a  hall 
wainscotted  with  mosaics,  where  grand  busts  look  gravely 
down  on  you  from  their  lofty  niches.  The  name  of  the 
founder  of  this  villa,  Cardinal  Ludovisi,  is  inscribed  over 
each  door.  Through  the  windows  you  perceive  gardens 
and  verdure.  The  'Aurora '  of  Guercino  fills  the  ceiling 
and  its  curves.  This  is  the  vast  naked  dining-hall  of  a 
grand  seigneur ;  we  have  halls  nowadays  as  brilliant  and  as 
convenient,  but  have  we  any  as  beautiful  ?  Aurora,  on  a 
chariot,  quits  old  Tithonus  half  enveloped  in  drapery,  which 
a  Cupid  raises,  whilst  another,  nude  and  plump,  seizes  with 
infantile  playfulness  some  flowers  in  a  basket.  She  is  a 
young  vigorous  woman,  her  vigour  almost  inclining  to 
coarseness.  Before  her  are  three  female  figures  on  a  cloud, 
all  large  and  ample,  and  much  more  original  and  natural 
than  those  of  the  Aurora  of  Guido.  Still  farther  in  advance 
are  three  laughing  young  girls  frolicking  and  extinguish- 
ing the  stars.  A  ray  of  morning  light  half  traverses  their 
faces,  and  the  contrast  between  the  illuminated  and 
shadowed  portions  is  charming.  Amid  ruddy  clouds  and 
the  morning  mists  that  are  disappearing,  you  perceive 
the  deep  blue  of  the  sea. 

On  one  of  the  hollows  of  the  arch  is  a  seated  female 
6gure,  sleeping,  clad  in  grey,  and  supporting  her  head  with 
her  hand ;  near  her  is  a  naked  infant  couched  on  some 
white  drapery,  also  asleep.  This  sleep  is  of  admirable 
truthfulness ;  the  profound  stupor  characteristic  of  children 
in  this  state  is  strongly  marked  in  the  slight  pout  of  the 
lips  and  in  a  light  frown  on  the  brow.  Guercino  did  n^t 


NEPOTISM   IN   THE  SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY.       20T 

like  Guide,  copy  antiques  ;  he  studied  living  models,  like 
Caravaggio,  always  observing  the  details  of  actual  life,  the 
changes  of  impression  from  grave  to  gay,  and  all  that  is 
capricious  in  the  passion  and  expression  of  the  face.  Hia 
figures  are  often  heavy  and  short,  but  they  live;  the 
mingling  of  light  with  transparent  shadows  on  the  bodies 
of  the  two  sleepers  is  the  very  poetry  of  sleep. 

The  Palace.  —These  villas  and  gardens,  and  these  pa- 
laces that  fill  the  Corso,  are  the  remains  of  Rome's  grand 
old  aristocratic  life.  Neither  Paris  nor  London  possesses 
anything  like  them ;  private  parks  in  these  cities  have 
become  public  promenades ;  a  great  family  has  retained 
only  a  mansion,  or  more  frequently  an  ordinary  house,  with 
a  small  plot  of  ground  around  it,  on  which  its  master  may 
take  his  walks,  subject  to  the  gaze  of  his  neighbours. 
Whilst  in  northern  lands  equality  was  being  established, 
the  aristocracy  were  here  strengthening  themselves  and 
renewing  their  existence  through  nepotism.  For  three 
centuries  the  popes  employed  the  best  part  of  the  public 
revenues  in  the  founding  of  families ;  they  were  good 
relatives,  and  provided  well  for  the  children  of  thr'f 
brothers  and  sisters.  Sixtus  V.  gave  to  one  of  his  grand 
nephews  a  cardinal's  hat  and  a  hundred  thousand  crowns 
out  of  the  ecclesiastical  benefices.  Clement  VTII.  in 
thirteen  years,  distributes  among  his  nephews,  the  Aldo- 
brandini,  and  in  ready  cash  only  a  million  of  crowns. 
Paul  V.  bestows  on  Cardinal  Borghese  one  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  crowns  of  the  Church  income ;  on  Maro- 
Antoine  Borghese  a  principality,  several  palaces  in  Rome, 
the  most  beautiful  in  its  vicinity ;  and  to  others,  diamonds, 
plate,  carriages,  and  complete  sets  of  furniture,  amounting 
to  a  million  of  crowns  in  specie.  With  such  profuse  sup- 
plies the  Borghese  family  purchased  eighty  estates,  all  on 
the  Roman  Camr-agna,  besides  others  elsewhere.  The  truth 
<a,  the  Pope  is  simply  an  aged  functionary,  whose  office  if 


208  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AND   CHURCHES. 

but  a  life  tenure,  his  family  being  obliged  to  make  the  most 
cf  it  in  the  shortest  space  of  time.  These  prodigalities 
increase  tinder  every  successive  reign.  Under  Gregory 
XV.,  Cardinal  Ludovisi  receives  two  hundred  thousand 
crowns  of  benefices  ;  his  uncle,  the  Pope's  father,  is  treated 
as  handsomely.  The  pope  founds  luoghi  di  monte  for 
eight  hundred  thousand  crowns,  which  he  gives  to  them. 
'  The  possessions  of  the  Peretti,  the  Aldobrandini,  the 
Borghdse,  and  the  Ludovisi,'  says  a  contemporary,  '  with 
their  principalities,  their  enormous  revenues,  so  many 
magnificent  edifices,  such  superb  furniture,  decorations, 
and  rare  pleasure-grounds,  surpass  not  only  the  state  of 
nobles  and  princes  not  sovereign,  but  approach  that  of 
kings  themselves.'  Under  Urban  VIII.  the  Barberini 
receive  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred  and  five  million 
crowns,  and  things  go  so  far,  that  the  Pope  entertains 
scruples  and  appoints  a  commission  to  take  the  matter 
in  hand.  In  short,  in  order  to  provide  the  means  for  these 
liberal  endowments,  it  becomes  necessary  to  borrow  money, 
and  the  finances  get  to  be  in  a  dreadful  plight ;  at  the  end 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  interest  of  the  debt  amounted 
to  three  quarters  of  the  revenue,  and  six  years  later  it  ab- 
sorbed it  entirely,  excepting  seventy  thousand  crowns ;  a 
few  years  after  this,  certain  branches  of  the  revenue  no 
longer  sufficed  to  discharge  the  burdens  imposed  on  them. 
The  commission  nevertheless  declared  that  the  Pope,  as 
prince,  might  bestow  his  savings  and  all  surplus  income 
on  whom  he  pleased.  Nobody  then  considered  a  sovereign 
as  a  magistrate  entrusted  with  the  administration  of  the 
public  funds;  such  an  idea  did  not  prevail  in  Europe  until 
after  the  time  of  Locke,  the  state  being  regarded  as  pro- 
perty which  anyone  might  either  use  or  abuse.  The  com- 
mission declared  that  the  Pope  could  conscientiously  found 
a  majorat  for  his  family  at  eighty  thousand  crowns. 
When  a  little  later  Alexander  VII.  wished  to  heal  thit 


NEPOTISM   IN    THE  SEVENTEENTH   CENTUBY.       208 

Bore,  good  strong  arguments  were  advanced  to  him  to 
prove  that  he  was  wrong.  He  had  forbidden  his  nephewa 
to  come  to  Rome,  and  the  rector  of  the  Jesuits'  College, 
Oliva,  decided  that  he  ought  to  summon  them  there 
f  under  penalty  of  committing  mortal  sin.'  It  is  interest- 
ing to  see  in  contemporary  narratives*  how  money  flows 
and  overflows,  descending  from  pope  to  pope  in  new  reser- 
voirs and  in  magnificent  golden  streams,  their  glittering 
waves  sparkling  with  the  precious  effigies  of  sequins, 
crowns,  and  ducats.  The  reader  sees,  as  in  the  vicinity  of 
a  vivifying  water-course,  the  most  beautiful  aristocratic 
flowers  spring  up;  all  that  sumptuousness  represented 
in  pictures  and  in  engravings,  gentlemen  in  satin  and 
velvet,  gay  lackeys,  footmen,  guards,  and  corpulent 
majordomos,  officers  of  the  kitchen,  the  table,  and  the 
stable ;  a  population  of  men-at-arms  and  noble  domestics 
purposely  selected  for  show  and  expense,  forming  a  retinue 
for  the  master  on  his  visits,  adorning  his  antichamber  at 
his  receptions,  mounting  behind  his  carriage,  lodging  in 
his  attics,  eating  in  his  kitchen,  assisting  at  his  bedside, 
and  living  in  lordly  style,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  make 
their  embroidered  coats  last  as  long  as  possible  and 
defend  at  all  hazards  the  honour  of  their  master's  house. 

How  support  such  a  throng  of  people  ?  And  note  this, 
that  they  had  to  be  supported;  they  were  necessary  in 
order  to  ensure  their  patron  proper  respect.  Rome  was 
not  a  place  of  security ;  *  On  the  death  of  Urban  VIII.,' 
says  one  of  his  contemporaries,  '  society,  during  the  con- 
clave, seemed  to  have  disintegrated.  There  were  so  many 
armed  people  in  the  city,  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have 
seen  so  many.  There  is  no  wealthy  house  that  does  not 
provide  itself  with  a  garrison  of  soldiers.  If  all  were 
massed  together  they  would  form  a  grand  army.  Violent 

*  See  Ranke's  History  of  the  Popes. 


210  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AND   CHURCHES. 

acts,  and  all  kind  of  license  are  committed  with  impu 
nity ;  men  are  slain  in  all  quarters :  the  report  the 
oftenest  circulated  is  that  this  or  that  well-known  person 
has  just  been  killed.'  As  soon  as  the  pope  is  elected,  his 
predecessor's  nephews  have  a  busy  time ;  every  effort  ia 
made  to  force  them  to  disgorge  their  plunder,  their  enemies 
commencing  trials  at  once,  and  often  compelling  them  to 
fly.  Amidst  so  much  danger,  a  party  of  dependants  and 
clients  whose  swords  are  always  ready  and  faithful, 
becomes  an  imperative  necessity.  Rome  had  not  then 
taken  the  step  which  separates  the  middle  ages  from 
modern  times.  Security  and  justice  did  not  exist  She 
is  not  an  organised  state,  and  still  less  a  soil  of  pa- 
triotic sentiment ;  every  one  is  obliged  to  protect  him- 
self either  by  force  or  by  stratagem ;  every  one  enjoys 
privileges,  that  is  to  say,  the  power  and  the  right  in 
certain  circumstances  to  set  himself  above  the  law. 
Even  a  hundred  years  later,  De  Brosses  writes, '  whoever 
cares  to  disturb  society  may  do  so  with  impunity  pro- 
vided he  is  known  to  a  noble  and  is  within  reach  of  a 
place  of  refuge.  Places  of  refuge  abound 

everywhere,  the  churches,  the  enclosure  of  an  ambassador's 
quarter,  the  house  of  a  cardinal,  to  such  an  extent,  that 
the  poor  devils  of  sbirri  (these  are  archers)  belonging  to 
the  police,  are  compelled  to  carry  maps  of  the  particular 
streets  and  places  in  Rome  through  which  they  may  pass 
in  pursuit  of  a  malefactor.' 

A  noble  lives  in  his  palace,  like  the  feudal  baron  in  hia 
castle.  His  windows  are  cross-barred  and  strongly 
bolted,  so  as  to  resist  lever  and  axe  ;  the  stones  of  hit 
fa9ade  are  long,  half  the  length  of  a  man's  body,  so  that 
neither  bullet  nor  pick  can  affect  their  mass ;  the  walls  of 
hia  gardens  are  thirty  feet  high,  and  the  copings  and 
corner  stones  are  such  that  few  would  risk  an  attack  on 
them.  The  park,  again,  is  large  enough  to  hold  a  small 


THE  DECADENCE  OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.    211 

army  ;  two  or  three  hundred  men  in  slashed  doublet* 
easily  find  room  in  the  antichambers  and  galleries,  and 
all  can  be  lodged  without  difficulty  under  the  roof.  As 
to  recruits,  these  are  never  wanting.  As  in  the  middle 
ages,  the  feeble,  in  order  to  exist,  are  forced  to  commend 
themselves  to  the  strong.  *  My  lord,'  says  a  poor  man, 
*  like  my  father  and  my  grandfather,  I  am  the  servant  of 
your  family.'  Also,  as  in  the  middle  ages,  the  strong,  to 
sustain  themselves,  require  to  enlist  a  corps  of  the  weak. 
'  There  is  a  coat,  and  so  many  crowns  a  month,'  says  the 
powerful  man,  '  march  by  the  side  of  my  carriage  on 
entries  and  at  ceremonies.'  There  are  thus  at  Rome 
hundreds  of  petty  leagues,  and  the  more  men  a  man  has 
under  his  control  and  in  his  service,  the  stronger  he  is. 

Such  a  system  brings  ruin,  and  the  first  thing  is  to 
borrow.  In  this  respect  the  nobles  imitate  the  state,  or, 
in  order  to  obtain  ready  money  they  mortgage  their 
revenues,  and  fail  to  keep  their  engagements.  For  seven 
years  the  creditors  of  the  Farnese  do  not  receive  a  crown ; 
and  as  among  these  creditors  there  are  hospitals  and  chari- 
table establishments,  the  pope  is  compelled  to  dispatch 
soldiers  to  occupy  the  Farnese  territory  at  Castro. 
In  these  days,  moreover,  disputes  grow  out  of  breaches  of 
etiquette,  and  provoke  veritable  wars,  and  you  may 
imagine  the  expense  of  these.  The  Barberini,  having 
received  no  visit  from  Odoardo  Farnese,  deprive  him 
of  the  right  of  exporting  his  corn,  whereupon  the  latter 
invades  the  States  of  the  Church  with  a  body  of  three 
thousand  horse,  declaring  that  he  does  not  come  to  attack 
the  pope  but  only  his  nephews.  The  nephews  in  theii 
turn  raise  an  army ;  the  soldiers  on  both  sides  are  merce- 
naries, French  and  German,  and  the  country  is  pillaged 
by  the  two  cavalcades  until,  finally,  peace  is  effected,  and 
both  parties  find  themselves  with  empty  pockets.  In 
order  to  refill  them  the  natural  course  is  to  oppress  the 


21*  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AM)   CHURCHES. 

people.  Donna  Olympia,  sister-in-law  of  Innocent  XM 
sells  public  offices.  The  brother  of  Alexander  VI.,  chiel 
judge  at  Borgo,  makes  a  market  of  justice.  Taxes 
become  frightful.  A  contemporary  writes  'that  the 
people,  without  revenue,  clothes,  beds,  and  kitchen  utensils 
to  satisfy  the  requirements  of  the  commissaries,  have 
only  one  resource  left  with  which  to  pay  taxes,  and  that 
is  to  sell  themselves  as  slaves.'  They  cease  to  work  and 
the  country  becomes  impoverished.  In  the  following 
century  De  Brosses  writes,  f  The  government  is  as  Lad  as 
one  could  possibly  conceive  of.  Imagine  what  a  people 
must  be  of  whom  one  third  are  priests,  and  another  third 
idlers  ;  where  there  is  neither  agriculture,  commerce,  nor 
manufactures,  in  the  midst  of  a  fertile  country,  and  on  a 
navigable  river,  and  in  which  at  every  change  fresh 
robbers  come  to  take  the  place  of  those  who  no  longer 
need  to  plunder.' 

In  such  a  country  labour  is  a  delusion.  Why  should 
I  take  the  trouble  to  work,  knowing  that  the  exchequer 
or  some  noble,  or  some  protected  knave,  will  rob  me 
of  the  fruits  of  my  labour  ?  It  is  much  better  to  attend 
the  levee  of  a  valet-de-chambre  of  some  dignitary  ;  he  will 
obtain  for  me  a  slice  of  the  cake.  *  If  a  common  girl 
enjoys  protection  through  the  bastard  of  a  cardinal's 
apothecary,  she  has  secured  to  her  five  or  six  dowries 
charged  on  five  or  six  churches,  and  no  longer  desires  to 
learn  how  to  sew  or  to  spin ;  another  scoundrel  espouses  her 
through  the  attraction  of  this  ready  money,'  and  they  live 
by  sponging ;  later  as  panders,  solicitors,  and  beggars  they 
fish  for  their  dinner  wherever  they  can  find  it.  High 
life  then  begins,  such  as  the  picaresco  novels  portray  it, 
and  not  merely  in  Rome  but  throughout  Italy.  Labour  is 
regarded  as  an  indignity,  and  people  aim  at  display ;  they 
hire  servants  and  forget  to  pay  them  their  wages ;  they 
dine  on  a  turnip  and  wear  lace ;  they  obtain  credit  of  tht 


THE  DECADENCE  OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.  218 

merchants  and  repel  their  demands  with  lies  and  entreaties. 
Goldoni's  comedies  are  full  of  these  well-born  personages, 
clever  and  cultivated  and  living  at  the  expense  of  others. 
They  get  themselves  invited  into  the  country;  they  are 
always  gay,  dashing,  and  conversational,  poetic  in  horiuur 
of  their  host  and  advisory  in  all  his  building  enterprises ; 
above  all  they  borrow  his  money  and  do  full  justice  to 
his  table,  being  called  '  cavaliers  of  the  tooth ; '  buffoons, 
flatterers,  and  gluttons,  they  would  readily  accept  a 
kick  for  a  crown.  The  memoirs  of  the  day  furnish 
hundreds  of  examples  of  this  degeneracy.  Carlo  Gozzi, 
on  returning  home  from  his  travels  with  a  friend,  stops  a 
moment  to  contemplate  the  superb  facade  of  the  palace  of 
his  family.  They  ascend  a  broad  marble  staircase  and  are 
astonished  at  what  they  behold,  the  house  seeming  to  have 
been  given  up  to  pillage.  '  The  floor  of  the  great  hall  was 
entirely  destroyed.  There  were  deep  cavities  everywhere, 
over  which  one  stumbled  with  a  severe  shock ;  the  broken 
windows  let  the  wind  in  from  all  quarters,  and  the  soiled 
tapestry  hung  on  the  walls  in  shreds.  Not  a  trace  was  left 
of  a  magnificent  gallery  of  old  paintings ;  I  could  find  but 
two  portraits  of  my  ancestors,  one  by  Titian  and  the  other 
by  Tintoretto.'  The  women  pawn,  hire,  or  sell,  what  they 
can  and  how  they  can.  When  necessity  prompts  them  they 
no  longer  stop  to  reason.  One  day  the  sister-in-law  of 
Gozzi  sells  to  a  sausage-maker  by  weight  a  bundle  of  olu 
papers  consisting  of  contracts,  trust-deeds,  and  titles  to 
property.  All  these  circumstances  provide  the  expedients, 
intrigues,  and  humorous  features  of  the  Roman  camique. 
It  is.  only  necessary  to  read  that  scapegrace  Casanova,  in 
order  to  know  to  what  gilded  misery  can  descend.  He 
undoubtedly,  'ike  all  rogues,  kept  the  company  of  his 
equals ;  but  Jb  vench  rascality  has  with  him  a  different  air 
and  quite  other  actors  than  Italian.  He  accosts  a  count, 
an  '^flicei  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  an  amiable  mac, 


214  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

whose  wife  and  daughter  are  refined  both  in  manners  and  in 
address ;  on  the  following  day  he  visits  them,  and  finda 
the  window  blinds  almost  closed  ;  he  opens  them  slightly 
and  perceives  two  poor  women  dressed  in  rags  and  in  linen 
by  no  means  attractive ;  they  hire  fine  clothes  for  Sunday 
in  order  to  attend  mass,  without  which  they  would  obtain 
no  share  of  the  ecclesiastical  alms  that  enable  them  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together.  Some  few  years  after  this 
he  returns  to  Milan.  Husbands  and  brothers,  all  gentle- 
men and  well  bred  and  many  quite  proud,  play  the  part 
of  panders  in  their  own  families ;  a  count  with  whom  he 
lodges,  and  who  is  without  fuel  to  make  a  fire,  blushingly 
offers  to  negociate  the  honour  of  his  wife.  Another, 
Count  Kinaldi,  on  learning  that  his  daughter  brings  a 
hundred  crowns  instead  of  fifty  weeps  for  joy.  Charming 
women  who,  for  lack  of  money,  could  not  visit  Milan,  are 
unable  to  resist  a  supper  and  a  dress.  The  son  of  a  noble 
Venetian  keeps  a  gambling-hell,  cheats  at  play  and  con- 
fesses it.  A  young  lady  of  the  nobility  confesses  that 
'  her  father  taught  her  to  cut  the  cards  at  faro  so  as  never 
to  lose.'  Men  and  women  go  down  on  their  knees  before 
a  sequin.  Quotations  are  impossible ;  the  actual  words 
of  the  swindling  charlatan  adventurer  can  alone  make 
visible  the  extraordinary  contrast  between  morals  and 
manners ;  on  the  one  hand  fine  clothes,  polished  phrases, 
elegant  style,  and  the  taste  and  deportment  of  the 
best  society;  and  on  the  other  the  effrontery,  the  acts, 
the  gestures,  and  the  filth  of  the  vilest.  It  is  to  this  lo\f 
level  that  the  seigneurial  rife  of  the  sixteenth  century- 
descended.  When  the  people  no  longer  work,  and  the 
great  rob,  we  see  chevaliers  ^Industrie  and  female  adven- 
turers in  swarms ;  honour  is  an  article  of  merchandise 
like  other  things,  and  it  is  bartered  for  coin  when  naught 
else  remains. 
And  yet  it  is  to  this  society  of  the  idle  and  the  privileged 


THE   DECADENCE   OP  THE  SEVENTEENTH   CENTURY.    215 

that  we  owe  the  great  works  of  art  which  now  attract 
visitors  to  Rome.  In  the  absence  of  all  other  interests 
men  occupied  themselves  with  forming  galleries  and  with 
architecture ;  the  pleasure  of  building  and  the  tastes  of 
the  antiquary  and  connoisseur  were  all  that  remained  to 
a  nobleman  weary  of  ceremonies  in  a  country  where  the 
chase  and  violent  bodily  exercises  were  no  longer  in 
fashion,  where  politics  was  interdicted,  where  neither 
public  spirit  nor  humanitarian  sympathy  existed,  and  where 
a  noble  literature  had  become  extinct,  having  been  sup- 
planted by  the  grossest  ignorance  and  insignificant  verses. 
What  could  he  do  after  he  had  provided  for  the  interests 
of  his  house,  returned  his  visits,  and  made  love  ?  He 
builds  and  he  buys.  Until  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
in  full  decadence,  this  noble  tradition  subsists.  He  prefers 
beauty  to  convenience.  '  The  houses,'  says  President  De 
Brosses, '  are  covered  with  antique  bas-reliefs  from  top  to 
bottom,  but  there  is  not  a  bedroom  in  them.'  The  Italian 
is  not  ostentatious,  like  the  Frenchman,  in  his  receptions 
and  in  gormandising ;  in  his  eyes  a  fine  fluted  column  is 
worth  more  than  fifty  repasts.  *  His  mode  of  self- 
display,  after  having  acquired  a  fortune  by  a  life  of  fru- 
gality, is  to  expend  it  in  the  construction  of  some  grand 
public  edifice  ....  in  order  to  transmit  to  posterity  in  a 
durable  manner  his  name,  his  magnificence,  and  his  taste.' 
The  traces  of  this  peculiar  life  are  visible  at  every  step 
in  the  hundred  and  fifty  palaces  that  crowd  Rome.  You 
eee  immense  courts,  high  walls  like  prison  walls,  and 
monumental  fagades.  Nobody  is  in  the  court — it  is  a 
desert;  sometimes  at  its  entrance  are  a  dozen  loungers 
seated  on  the  stones,  appearing  to  be  pulling  up  the  grass ; 
you  would  imagine  the  palace  abandoned.  '  This  is  fre- 
quently the  case,  its  ruined  master  lodging  in  the  fourth 
Btory  and  trying  to  let  a  portion  of  the  rest,  all  these  build- 
ings being  too  grand,  too  disproportionate  to  the  standard 


216  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

of  modern  living,  and  unfit  for  anything  but  museumi 
and  ministerial  purposes.  You  ring  and  a  '  Swiss,'  some 
solemn-visaged  lackey,  slowly  answers  the  bell ;  these 
people  all  look  like  the  doleful  birds  of  the  Jardin  dcs 
Plantes,  begilded,  striped,  befeathered,  and  sad,  but 
roosting  on  a  suitable  perch.  Very  often  nobody  comes, 
although  you  are  there  at  the  proper  day  and  hour,  because 
the  custode  is  executing  some  commission  for  the  princess  : 
and  thereupon  the  visitor  curses  a  country  in  which  all 
support  themselves  on  strangers,  and  in  which  nobody  is 
prompt.  You  mount  countless  nights  of  steps,  of  extra- 
ordinary width  and  height,  and  find  yourself  in  a  range  of 
apartments  of  still  greater  width  and  height ;  you  advance 
—  there  is  no  end  to  them;  you  walk  for  five  minutes 
before  reaching  the  dining  hall,  in  which  four  regiments 
of  infantry  with  their  sappers  and  musicians  might  all  be 
lodged  ;  the  Austrian  embassy  at  Venice  is  as  much  lost 
in  one  of  these  palaces  as  a  nest  of  rats  in  an  old  mill. — 
Suppose,  for  instance,  that  you  have  a  visit  to  pay;  in  vain 
does  the  family  occupy  the  palace — it  seems  to  be  empty. 
You  notice  a  few  servants  in  the  antichamber ;  beyond 
this  solitude  begins — five  or  six  enormous  halls,  filled  with 
faded  furniture,  most  of  it  in  the  fashion  of  the  Empire. 
You  cast  your  eyes  out  of  a  window  as  you  pass,  and  gee 
lofty  heavy  walls,  moss-covered  pavements,  and  the  corn- 
ices of  a  mutilated  and  leprous  roof.  At  length  human 
figures  reappear — one  or  two  officers ;  they  announce 
yen,  and  you  stand  before  a  plain-looking  man  in  a  frock- 
coat  seated  in  a  modern  fauteil  in  a  smaller  chamber,  and 
duly  arranged  with  a  view  to  comfort  and  warmth.  If 
there  is  a  melancholy  abode  in  the  world,  one  more  dis- 
cordant with  modern  usages,  it  is  that  which  this  man 
occupies.  By  way  of  contrast  remark,  on  leaving  it,  a 
renovated  hotel  such  as  you  encounter  among  the  lessei 
nobility,— the  house  of  an  artist,  of  which  there  are  a 


THE  PALACE  AT  THE  PRESENT  DAY.  911 

number  near  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  with  its  carpets  and 
flower-stands,  its  fresh  new  and  elegant  furniture,  the 
many  charming  evidences  of  prosperity,  its  moderate  and 
convenient  dimensions,  everything  it  contains  that  is 
attractive,  brilliant,  comfortable,  and  delightful.  On  the 
contrary,  the  palace  requires  sixty  liveried  lackeys  and 
eighty  dependent  gentlemen  on  wages ;  these  constitute 
the  natural  furniture  for  each  apartment:  the  courts 
require  the  twenty  carriages  and  the  hundred  horses  of 
its  ancient  masters;  add  to  this  various  services  of 
plate,  tapestries,  and  millions  of  cash  in  hand  to  regild  or 
renew  its  furniture  as  in  the  days  of  the  popes  of  two 
centuries  ago.  Its  pictures,  all  those  grand  figures  in 
action,  those  splendid  nudities  hung  on  the  walls,  are 
nothing  now  but  monuments  of  an  extinct  existence,  too 
voluptuous  and  too  corporeal  for  the  life  of  the  present. 
A  lizard  quartered  in  the  carcase  of  an  antediluvian  croco- 
dile, his  ancestor,  is  a  symbol  of  the  aristocratic  life  of 
Home;  the  crocodile  was  a  fine  one,  but  he  is  now  dead, 


CHAPTER  IIL 

TEE  FARNESE  PALACE — THE  SCIARRA,  DORIA,  BORGHESE,  BARBERINI, 
AND  ROSPIGLIOSI  PALACES  AND  GALLERIES — THE  PAINTERS  OF  Till 
SIXTEENTH  AND  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURIES. 

OP  all  these  fossils  the  grandest,  noblest,  most  im- 
posing and  rigidly  magnificent  is,  in  my  opinion,  the 
Farnese  palace.  It  is  situated  in  a  vile  quarter.  In 
order  to  reach  it  you  pass  near  the  gloomy  and  dilapidated 
Cenci  palace.  Five  minutes  before  I  had  traversed  the 
Ghetto  of  the  Jews,  a  veritable  nest  of  pariahs  in  a  labyrinth 
of  crooked  streets  and  foul  gutters,  its  houses  with  their 
dislocated  bulging  fronts  reminding  one  of  dropsical 
hernia,  their  dark  courts  discharging  exhalations,  and 
their  winding  stone  steps  clinging  to  walls  reeking  with 
the  filth  of  centuries.  Ugly,  dwarfed,  and  pallid  figures 
swarmed  here  like  mushrooms  growing  on  a  heap  of 
rubbish. 

You  arrive,  your  mind  filled  with  images  of  this  de- 
scription. Alone,  in  the  middle  of  a  dark  square,  rises 
the  enormous  palace,  lofty  and  massive,  like  a  fortress 
capable  of  giving  and  receiving  the  heaviest  ordinance. 
It  belongs  to  the  grand  era;  its  architects,  San.  Gallo, 
Michael  Angelo  and  Vignolles,  and  especially  the  first 
named,  have  stamped  upon  it  the  veritable  Renaissance 
character,  that  of  virile  energy.  It  is  indeed  akin  to  the 
torsoes  of  Michael  Angelo  ;  you  feel  in  it  the  inspiration 
of  the  great  pagan  epoch,  the  age  of  tragic  passions  and 


THE   FAKXESE   PALACE.  219 

of  unimpaired  energies  that  foreign  dominion  and  the 
catholic  restoration  were  about  to  weaken  and  degrade. 
The  exterior  is  a  colossal  square  form,  with  strong  barred 
windows,  and  almost  wholly  without  ornament ;  it  has  to 
resist  attack,  endure  for  centuries,  and  lodge  a  prince  and 
a  small  army  of  retainers ;  this  is  the  first  idea  of  its 
master  and  of  its  architect ;  that  of  the  pleasing  cornea 
afterward .  But  the  term  pleasing  is  badly  chosen ; 
amidst  bold  and  dangerous  customs,  amusement,  and 
graceful  amiability  as  we  comprehend  it,  are  never  thought 
of;  what  they  prize  is  grave  masculine  beauty,  and  they 
express  it  by  lines  and  by  constructions  as  well  as  by 
frescoes  and  statues.  Above  this  grand,  almost  bare 
facade,  the  cornice  that  forms  the  edge  of  thereof  is  both 
rich  and  severe,  and  its  continuous  framework,  so  noble 
and  appropriate,  maintains  the  entire  mass  together,  so 
that  the  whole  is  a  single  form.  The  enormous  bossagea 
of  the  angles,  the  variety  of  the  long  lines  of  windows, 
the  thickness  of  the  walls,  constantly  mingle  together 
the  ideas  of  force  and  beauty.  You  enter  through  a 
sombre  vestibule,  as  solid  as  a  postern,  peopled  with 
arabesques  and  supported  by  twelve  short  Doric  columns  of 
red  granite.  The  admirable  interior  court  here  presents 
itself,  and  the  finest  portion  of  the  edifice.  The  exterior 
is  for  defence,  the  interior  for  promenade,  repose,  and 
to  enjoy  the  cool  air.  Each  story  has  its  own  inner  pro- 
menade and  portico  of  columns,  every  column  being  inserted 
in  a  strong  arch  and  forming  a  resisting  echinus,  which 
adds  considerably  to  its  energetic  appearance ;  the  balus 
trades  however,  and  the  diversity  of  the  stories,  one 
being  Doric  and  another  Ionic,  and  especially  the  garland 
of  fruits  and  flowers  separating  them,  and  the  lilies  sculp- 
tured in  arabesque,  overspread  this  severity  with  beauty 
like  a  bright  light  in  the  midst  of  a  powerful  shadow. 
The  Sciarra  and  Doria  Palaces. — As  the  former  king  of 


220  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND    CHURCHES. 

Naples  occupies  the  Farnese  palace  it  is  difficult  to  get 
access  to  it  in  order  to  examine  the  paintings  ;  the  others 
are  open  on  fixed  days.  Proprietors  have  the  taste  and 
good  sense  to  convert  their  private  galleries  into  public 
museums.  Hand-cards  are  placed  upon  the  tables  and 
serve  as  catologues  for  the  convenience  of  visitors,  while 
the  concierges  and  keepers  gravely  pocket  their  two 
pauls'  gratuity ;  they  are,  in  fact,  functionaries  that  serve 
the  public  and  must  be  paid  by  the  public. — This  shows 
the  transition  from  aristocratic  to  democratic  life ;  mas- 
ter-pieces and  palaces  have  ceased  with  us  to  be  the 
property  of  individuals,  in  order  to  become  the  usufruct 
of  all. 

The  Sciarra  Palace. — Two  precious  pictures  here  are 
under  glass,  the  first  and  the  most  beautiful  being  the 
( Violin-player '  by  Raphael.  This  represents  a  young 
man  in  a  black  cap  and  green  mantle  with  a  fur  collar,  and 
thick  brown  hair  descending  over  it.  There  is  good 
reason  for  pronouncing  Raphael  the  prince  of  painters.  It 
is  impossible  to  be  more  sober  and  more  simple,  to 
comprehend  grandeur  more  naturally  and  with  less  of  effort. 
His  faded  frescoes  and  defaced  ceilings  do  not  fully  re- 
present him ;  one  must  see  works  like  this  in  which 
the  colouring  is  not  impaired  and  the  relief  remains 
intact.  The  young  man  slowly  turns  his  head,  fixing  his 
eye  on  the  spectator.  The  nobleness  and  calmness  of  the 
head  are  incomparable,  also  its  gentleness  and  intelligence; 
you  cannot  imagine  a  more  beautiful,  a  more  delicate 
spirit,  one  more  worthy  of  being  loved.  His  seriousnesa 
is  such  that  one  might  imagine  he  detected  a  shade  of  me- 
lancholy; but  the  truth  is  he  is  in  repose  and  hehas  anoble 
nature.  The  more  one  contemplates  Raphael  the  more  doea 
one  recognise  that  he  had  a  tender  confiding  soul,  similar  to 
that  of  Mozart,  that  of  a  man  of  genius  who  displayed  his 
genius  without  suffering,  and  ever  dwelt  with  ideal  forms ; 


THE   SCIARRA  AND   DORIA   PALACES.  221 

he  remained  good,  like  a  superior  creature  traversing 
the  baseness  and  miseries  of  life  without  being  affected 
by  them. 

The  other  picture  is  a  portrait  of  Titian's  mistress,  noble 
also  and  calm  like  a  Greek  statue  ;  one  hand  rests  on  a 
casket  and  the  other  touches  the  magnificent  hair  which 
falls  from  her  neck.  The  white  chemise  lies  in  careless 
folds,  and  a  large  red  mantle  encircles  the  shoulders. 
What  folly  to  compare  together  these  two  painters  and 
these  two  pictures !  Is  it  not  better  to  enjoy  in  them  both 
aspects  of  life. 

Two  '  Magdalens '  by  Guido.  Here  you  make  compa- 
risons in  spite  of  yourself;  you  turn  away  immediately 
from  these  chalky,  feeble  productions,  executed  mechani- 
cally and  barren  of  all  ideas. 

One  of  the  masterpieces  of  this  gallery,  and  perhaps 
the  greatest,  I  find  to  be  the  *  Modesty  and  Vanity '  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.  It  is  simply  two  female  figures  on 
a  dark  background.  Here,  and  as  if  by  contrast,  what 
there  is  of  ideas  is  incredible.  This  man  is  the  most  pro- 
found, the  most  thoughtful  of  painters ;  his  was  a  subtle 
intellect  full  of  curious  questionings,  caprices,  refinements, 
intricacies,  sublime  conceptions,  and  perhaps  of  sad  expe- 
riences beyond  all  his  contemporaries.  He  was  universal — 
painter,  sculptor,  architect,  machinist,  engineer;  antici- 
pating modern  science  and  defining  and  pursuing  its 
method  anterior  to  Bacon ;  inventive  in  all  things,  even  to 
appearing  eccentric  to  the  men  of  his  age ;  diving  into 
and  pressing  onward  through  coming  centuries  and  ideas, 
without  confining  himself  to  any  nne  art  or  occupation,  or 
contenting  himself  with  what  he  knew  or  had  done,  but 
on  the  contrary  dissatisfied  at  the  very  time  when  the 
self-love  of  the  most  ambitious  would  have  been  most 
gratified,  always  preoccupied  in  outstripping  himself  and 
in  advancing  on  his  own  discoveries,  like  a  navigator,  who 


222  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND   CHURCHES. 

indifferent  to  success  and  oblivious  of  the  possible,  plunges 
irresistibly  into  the  infinite  and  unknown.  The  expression 
of  the  face  representing  Vanity  is  extraordinary.  We 
can  never  know  the  research,  the  combinations,  the  sen- 
sations, the  internal  spontaneous  reflective  labour,  the 
ground  traversed  by  his  spirit  and  intellect  in  order  to 
evolve  a  head  like  this.  She  is  much  more  delicately 
formed  and  more  noble  and  elegant  than  Monna  Lisa. 
The  luxuriance  and  taste  of  the  coiffure  are  remarkable. 
Beautiful  clusters  of  curls  tower  above  the  head  and  reflect 
hyacinthine  hues,  while  waving  tresses  descend  upon  the 
shoulders.  The  face  is  almost  fleshless  ;  the  features  on 
which  expression  depends  absorb  it  entirely.  She  has  a 
strange  melancholy  smile,  one  peculiar  to  Da  Vinci, 
combining  the  sadness  and  irony  of  a  superior  nature ;  a 
queen,  a  goddess,  an  adored  mistress  possessing  all  and 
finding  that  all  but  little,  would  thus  smile. 

The  landscape  saloon  is  one  of  the  richest ;  it  contains 
several  Claude  Lorraines,  some  Locatellis,  and  a  vast 
landscape  by  Poussin,  representing  St.  Matthew  writing 
near  a  large  sheet  of  water  in  a  country  composed  of 
broad  monumental  features — ever  the  same  Italian  land- 
ecape  as  understood  in  this  country,  that  is  to  say,  the 
villa  magnified,  just  as  the  English  garden  is  a  transcript 
in  miniature  of  the  open  country  of  England.  The  two 
races,  the  German  and  the  Latin,  show  here  their 
opposition;  one  loves  nature  for  itself,  while  the  other 
accepts  it  only  as  decoration  in  order  to  appropriate  it  and 
subordinate  it  to  man.  The  finest  picture  here  is  a 
large  landscape  by  Poussin  representing  a  winding  river, 
a  forest  on  the  left,  in  the  foreground  a  ruined  colonnade 
with  a  tower  in  the  middle  distance,  and  beyond  a  range  of 
blue  mountains.  These  parts  are  thus  arranged  architectu- 
rally, and  the  masses  of  colour,  like  the  forms,  are  simple, 
powerful,  quiet,  and  well  contrasted.  This  gravity,  thii 


THE  SCIARRA  AND  DORIA  PALACES.  221 

regularity,  satisfies  the  mind  if  not  the  eyes :  in  order  fully 
to  appreciate  it,  however,  one  must  love  tragedy,  classic 
verse,  the  pomp  of  etiquette,  and  seigneurial  or  monarchi- 
cal grandeur.  The  distance  between  these  and  modern 
sentiments  is  infinite.  Who  would  recognise  the  life  of 
nature  here  as  we  comprehend  it,  such  as  our  poets 
portray  it — undulating  and  subject  to  caprices,  by  turns 
delicate,  strange,  and  powerful,  expressive  in  itself  and  as 
varied  as  man's  physiognomy? — Just  as  the  Sciarra 
palace  is  dilapidated  so  is  the  Doria  palace  magnificent. 
Among  the  Roman  families  that  of  the  Doria  is  one  of 
the  richest;  there  are  eight  hundred  pictures  in  the 
various  apartments.  You  pass  through  a  long  series  of 
rooms  covered  with  them,  and  then  enter  the  gallery,  a 
superb  square  promenade,  extending  around  a  court  filled 
with  verdant  plants  and  painted  in  fresco  and  decorated 
with  largo  mirrors.  Three  of  its  sides  are  filled  with 
pictures,  and  the  fourth  with  statues.  Here  and  there 
are  family  busts  and  portraits,  that  of  Admiral  Andre 
Doria  the  leading  citizen  and  liberator  of  Genoa,  and  that 
of  Donna  Olympia,  who  governed  the  Church  under 
Innocent  X.  Such  a  gallery  on  a  reception  day,  illu- 
minated and  crowded  with  the  rich  costumes  of  officers, 
cardinals,  ambassadors  and  others  must  afford  a  unique 
spectacle.  I  have  seen  in  other  places  two  or  three  of 
these  grand  entertainments.  The  staircases  and  vesti- 
bules are  decked  with  the  laurel  and  the  orange,  mingled 
with  busts  and  statues ;  the  animated  flesh  of  the  pictures 
glows  magnificently  in  their  golden  frames  on  their 
dark  backgrounds;  long  galleries  and  spacious  saloons, 
thirty  feet  in  height,  allow  groups  to  assemble  and  dis- 
perse with  the  utmost  facility  :  flaming  candelabra  and 
lustrous  chandeliers  fill  a  vast  space  with  light  without 
dazzling  the  eye  with  its  profusion ;  while  half-shadowa 
and  middle-tints  do  not  disappear,  as  in  our  srnal] 


224  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND    CHURCHES. 

drawing-rooms,  beneath  the  crudity  and  uniformity 
of  a  white  light.  Each  group  has  its  own  peculiar  tint  and 
lives  in  its  own  atmosphere :  amongst  silken  hangings, 
between  chaste  marble  statues,  under  the  sombre  reflec- 
tions of  bronzes  the  assembly  swims  in  a  sort  of  fluid,  the 
softness  and  depth  of  which  the  eye  delights  in. 

The  landscapes  of  Poussin  and  of  Gaspar  Poussin,  hia 
pupil,  almost  fill  an  entire  hall.  They  are  the  largest  I 
ever  saw,  one  of  them  being  twenty  feet  long.  By  dint 
of  regarding  the  skilfully  composed  details  of  the  country 
before  you,  that  dark  foreground  of  large  trees  contrast- 
ing with  the  delicate  tint  of  the  distant  mountain,  and 
that  broad  opening  of  the  sky,  you  succeed  in  abstracting 
yourself  from  your  own  age  and  in  taking  the  position  of 
the  painter.  If  he  does  not  feel  the  life  of  nature  he  feels 
its  grandeur,  and  solemn  gravity,  and  even  its  melancholy. 
He  lived  in  solitude,  in  meditation,  in  an  age  of  decline. 
Landscape  perhaps  may  be  but  the  last  moment  of  paint- 
ing, that  which  closes  a  grand  epoch  and  adapted  to  wearied 
spirits.  When  man  is  still  young  in  heart  he  is  interested 
most  in  himself,  nature  being  to  him  no  more  than  an 
accompaniment.  At  least  it  is  so  in  Italy  ;  if  landscape 
art  is  developed  there  it  is  towards  the  end,  in  the  time 
of  the  Arcadians  and  of  pastoral  academies;  it  already  filla 
the  larger  portion  of  the  canvasses  of  Albano  and  it  entirely 
absorbs  those  of  Canealetti,  the  last  of  the  Venetians. 
Zuccarelli,  Tempesta,  and  Salvator  are  landscapists.  On 
the  contrary,  in  the  time  of  Michael  Angelo  and  even 
in  that  of  Vasari,  trees  and  structures  were  disdained, 
everything  but  the  human  figure  being  regarded  aa 
accessory. 

There  are  several  works  here  by  Titian ;  a  '  Holy 
Family,'  in  his  early  style ;  the  superb  corporeal  type  he 
ia  afterwards  to  develop  in  his  mistresses  here  begins  to 


THE  STYLE  OF  TITIAff.  225 

appear.  Two  portraits  represent  these;  they  are  only 
healthy,  good-looking  women,  one  of  whom,  decked  in 
pearls  and  with  a  small  collar,  being  the  most  appetising 
of  well-fed  servant  girls.  A  merry  (  Magdalen,'  fully 
exposing  her  breast,  is  simply  an  animal.  A  f  St.  Agnes ' 
is  only  a  good  little  pouting  girl,  very  childlike  and  quito 
free  of  any  mystic  sentiment.  In  his  *  Sacrifice  of 
Abraham '  poor  Isaac  cries  like  a  little  boy  with  a  cut 
finger.  Titian,  almost  as  much  as  Rubens,  dares  portray 
the  temperament  of  man,  the  passions  of  flesh  and  blood, 
the  low,  unrestrained  instincts — in  short,  the  brutal  life  of 
the  body ;  but  he  does  not  give  it  full  rein ;  he  maintains 
the  rebellious  flesh  within  the  confines  of  harmonious  form ; 
voluptuousness  with  him  is  never  unaccompanied  with 
nobleness.  Happiness  with  him  is  not  the  satisfaction  of 
the  senses,  but  besides  this  the  gratification  of  poetic 
instincts ;  he  does  not  descend  to  kermesses  but  delights 
in  fetes,  and  not  those  of  rustics  but  of  epicureans  and  of 
grand  seigneurs.  Instinct  with  such  natures  may  be  as 
strong,  as  intemperate  as  among  the  vulgar,  but  it  is 
accompanied  with  another  intellect,  and  is  not  gratified  at 
BO  little  cost ;  it  does  not  demand  turnips  on  a  pewter 
dish  but  oranges  on  a  salver  of  gold.  You  cannot 
imagine  truer  and  healthier  colour  than  that  of  his 
*  Three  Ages  of  Man,'  a  more  blooming  and  fresher  form 
than  this  superb  blonde  woman,  in  a  red  robe  with  the 
sleeves  of  her  white  chemise  gathered  at  the  shoulders, 
exposing  the  solid  whiteness  of  her  lovely  arms.  The  ex- 
pression is  calm  and  serious.  We  are  no  longer  capable 
of  painting  the  beauty  which  might  provoke  bat  does  not 
provoke. 

Several  pictures  of  the  Bolognese  school  are  all  of  the 

game  character.      One,  by   Guercino,   and  very  black, 

represents  Herminia  meeting  Tancred  wounded  and  in  a 

swoon.      The  attendant  is  an  academy  head,  and  thf 

Q 


226  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

figure  in  a  swoon  is  copied  from  life  with  a  melodramatic 
aim. — The  second  picture  is  by  Guido,  a  '  Madonna 
adoring  the  infant  Jesus.'  The  Madonna  is  a  pretty 
boarding-school  miss ;  this  picture  already  smacks  of  the 
devout  affectation  and  other  influences  of  the  *  sacred- 
uoart.' — Ihe  third  is  a  Pieta  by  Annibal  Carrache.  Hia 
Christ,  a  handsome  young  fellow,  has  a  head  distingue 
and  sentimental,  such  as  would  please  a  pretty  woman. 
The  little  weeping  cherubs  point  touchingly  to  the  holes 
in  the  feet  and  try  to  raise  the  heavy  arm.  Pretty  senti- 
mental efforts  like  these  suited  the  fashionable  pietism 
of  the  seventeenth  century — a  religion  adapted  to  mystic 
and  worldly  women. 

But  the  most  striking  examples  are,  in  my  opinion,  the 
portraits.  One  by  Paul  Veronese  represents  Lucrezia 
Borgia  in  black  velvet,  the  breast  slightly  exposed, 
with  bows  of  lace  on  the  sleeves  and  corsage,  a  large  and 
mature  form,  her  hair  combed  back,  her  forehead  low,  and 
with  a  singular  look  out  of  the  eyes,  as  she  appeared  at 
the  time  Bembo  addressed  to  her  the  periods  and  pro- 
testations of  his  ceremonious  letters. — Admiral  Andrea 
Doria  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo  is  that  of  a  superb  states- 
man and  warrior,  with  a  commanding  air  and  calm  look, 
his  large  head  appearing  still  larger  through  its  ample 
grey  beard.  There  is  another  head  by  Bronzino,  that  of 
Machiavelli,  animated,  humorous,  and  suggestive  of  a 
burlesque  actor ;  you  would  call  him  a  sly  fellow,  attentive 
to  all  that  goes  on  around  him,  and  in  search  of  the  comic. 
In  Machiavelli  the  historian,  philosopher,  and  statesman, 
conceal  the  comedian,  and  this  comedian  is  coarse,  licen- 
tious, often  bitter,  and  at  last  desponding.  His  jesting  after 
his  torture  is  well-known,  and  his  funereal  gaiety  during  the 
plague.  When  one  is  too  sad  he  must  laugh  in  order  not 
to  weep.  In  the  seventeenth  century  and  in  France  he 
might  perhaps  have  been  a  Moliere, — Two  portrait* 


HIE   PORTRAIT   OP   INNOCENT  X.  227 

attrib  uted  to  Raphael,  or  in  his  manner,  those  of  Bartolo 
and  Baldo,  are  rough  jolly  fellows;  he  has  seized  the 
entire  man  without  any  omission,  in  the  very  centre  oi 
his  being.  Other  painters  by  the  side  of  Raphael  lack 
equilibrium  and  are  eccentric. — The  masterpiece  of  all 
the  portraits  is  that  of  Pope  Innocent  X.  by  Velasquez ; 
on  a  red  chair  before  a  red  curtain  under  a  red  hat  and 
above  a  red  mantle  is  a  red  face,  that  of  a  miserable  fool  and 
pedant;  make  a  picture  out  of  this  which  is  never  forgotten! 
One  of  my  friends,  on  returning  from  Madrid,  remarked 
that,  by  the  side  of  Velasquez'  great  pictures  all  the  others, 
however  true  and  magnificent,  seemed  dead  and  academic. 
The  Borghese  Palace. — If  on  turning  the  corner  of  a 
copse  you  were  to  see  a  fawn  advancing  its  head  and 
listening,  you  would  admire  the  gracefully  bending  neck, 
and  feel  the  supple,  waving  motion  of  the  body,  as  it 
darted  off  at  the  first  alarm  to  scamper  away  in  the  un- 
derwood; when  a  horse  near  you  tries  to  jump,  and  gathers 
Tip  his  hind-quarters  to  spring,  you  feel  the  swelling  of  the 
muscles  that  throw  him  on  his  haunches,  and  you  interest 
yourself  sympathetically  in  the  attitude  and  in  the  effort. 
You  do  not  expect  anything  more ;  you  do  not  require  an 
additional  moral  idyl,  a  psychological  intention  such  as 
Landseer  seeks.  Such  is  the  spirit  in  wliich  the  pictures 
of  the  great  Italian  century  must  be  considered ;  ex- 
pression comes  later,  along  with  the  Caracci.  That  which 
occupies  men  about  the  year  1500  is  the  human  animal, 
and  its  accompaniment,  a  simple  easy  costume.  Add  to 
this  the  pompous  superstition  of  the  time,  the  need  of 
saints  for  churches  and  of  decoration  for  palaces.  Out  of 
these  two  sentiments  the  rest  all  flow ;  the  second,  again, 
has  simply  furnished  the  motive ;  the  substance  of  art 
comes  from  the  first.  They  were  right ;  grief,  joy,  rage, 
pity,  all  the  shades  and  varieties  of  passion  visible  to 
the  inward  eye,  if  I  subordinate  the  body  to  them;  if 


M8  YILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

muscles  and  drapery  are  only  there  to  translate  these,  I 
employ  forms  and  colours  simply  as  means,  and  do  that 
which  I  could  better  do  with  another  art,  as  for  example, 
poetry.  I  commit  the  same  mistake  as  is  made  in  music 
when  a  strain  of  the  clarionette  attempts  to  express  the 
triumphant  ruse  of  the  young  Horatius ;  the  same  error  a? 
in  literature  when  with  twenty-five  lines  of  ink  on  white 
paper  it  attempts  to  convey  an  idea  of  the  curve  of  a  nose 
or  a  chin.  I  fall  short  of  picturesque  eifect  and  only  half 
attain  to  a  literary  effect ;  I  am  only  half-painter,  half- 
author. 

This  idea  recurs  to  one  constantly,  for  example,  before 
the  '  Madonnas '  and  the  *  Venuses  '  of  Andrea  del  Sarto — 
all  pretty  young  girls  related  to  each  other ;  and  before  the 
'  Visitation '  of  Sebastian  del  Poimbo — which  is  a  Visita- 
tion if  you  choose  to  call  it  so,  but  if  properly  named  would 
be  entitled,  an  erect  young  woman  standing  by  the  side  of 
an  old  woman  stooping.  Two  different  men  were  embodied 
in  the  spectator  of  that  day :  the  devotee,  who,  in  commis- 
sioning a  picture  for  a  church  believed  he  was  gaining  a 
hundred  years'  indulgence,  and  the  man  of  action,  whose 
head  was  filled  with  physical  imagery  and  who  delighted 
in  the  contemplation  of  healthy  bodily  activity  and  fine 
drapery. 

The  '  Sacred  and  Profane  Love '  by  Titian  is  still 
another  masterpiece  of  the  same  spirit  A  beautiful 
woman  dressed  appears  by  the  side  of  another  naked, 
which  is  all,  and  enough  One,  calm  with  noblest  serenity, 
and  the  other  white  with  the  amber  whiteness  of  living 
flesh  between  red  and  white  drapery,  the  breasts  slightly 
defined,  and  the  head  free  from  licentious  vulgarity,  gives 
an  idea  of  love  of  the  happiest  kind.  By  their  side  is  a 
sculptured  fountain,  and  behind  them  a  broad  landscape 
of  a  blue  tone  with  warm  patches  of  earth  intersected  by 
the  darks  of  sombre  forests,  and  in  the  distance  the  sea , 


THE  HARMONY  OF  FIGURE  AND   LANDSCAPE.       2*8 

two  cavaliers  are  visible  in  the  background,  also  a  spire 
and  a  town.  People  loved  the  actual  landscapes  which 
they  saw  daily,  and  these  were  put  into  their  pictures 
without  much  thought  of  their  suitableness ;  everything 
is  designed  to  please  the  eye,  nothing  to  please  the 
reasoning  faculties.  The  eye  passes  from  the  simple 
tones  of  that  ample  ind  healthy  flesh  to  the  rich  subdued 
tints  of  the  landscape,  as  the  ear  passes  from  a  melody 
to  its  accompaniment.  Both  are  in  harmony,  and  in 
going  from  one  to  the  other  you  feel  a  pleasure  that 
continues  to  be  a  pleasure  of  the  same  order.  In  his 
other  picture  of  the  '  Three  Graces,'  after  contemplating 
the  first  with  her  beautiful  calm  countenance,  the  golden 
diadem  sown  with  pearls  extending  up  to  the  middle  of 
her  crisped  locks,  and  those  blonde  tresses  descending  in 
silken  waves  on  the  neck  down  to  her  robe,  you  let  the 
eye  pass  to  the  magnificent  landscape  of  naked  rocks  made 
blue  by  distance  and  atmosphere,  and  the  poesy  of  nature 
completes  that  of  the  body. 

There  are  seventeen  hundred  pictures  in  this  gallery. 
How  speak  of  them?  Enumerate  all  the  museums  of 
Italy,  all  beyond  the  mountains  and  those  that  have 
perished,  and  add  to  this  that  there  is  not  a  private  house 
of  any  pretension  which  does  not  possess  one  or  more  old 
pictures.  It  is  with  Italian  painting  as  with  that  Greek 
sculpture  which  formerly  accumulated  at  Rome  sixty 
thousand  statues.  Each  of  these  arts  corresponds  to  a 
peculiar  epoch  in  the  human  mind ;  men  thought  then 
through  colours  and  through  forms. 

One  of  these  pictures  remains  in  the  mind — the 
'  Diana's  Chase '  by  Domenichino.  This  represents 
naked  and  half-naked  young  girls,  gay  and  somewhat 
vulgar,  bathing,  playing,  and  drawing  the  bow.  One, 
lying  on  her  back,  displays  a  charmingly  infantile  arch 
expression,  Another,  having  just  shot  an  arrow,  smiles 


280  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

with  the  gaiety  of  a  pretty  village  lass.  A  little  thing 
about  fifteen,  with  a  solid  hearty  torso,  is  removing  the  last 
of  her  two  sandals.  All  these  young  creatures  are  plump, 
alert,  and  pretty,  somewhat  grisettish  in  character,  and 
accordingly  with  not  much  of  the  goddess  about  them. 
But  what  natural  youthful  faces  and  charms  I  Dome- 
nichino  is  an  original  earnest  artist,  and  quite  the 
opposite  of  Guido.  Among  the  exigencies  of  fashion 
and  the  conventionalities  of  partisans  he  maintains  hia 
own  sentiment  and  dares  to  adhere  to  it;  he  resorts  to 
nature  and  interprets  her  his  own  way.  His  contem- 
poraries punished  him  for  it,  for  he  lived  unhappy  and 
unknown. 

The  Barlerini  and  Rospigliosi  Palaces. — It  is  pleasant 
to  follow  up  an  idea.  I  went  to  see  his  other  pictures, 
one  of  which  in  the  Barberini  palace  represents  Adam  and 
Eve  before  the  Creator  after  their  fall.  In  this  work  the 
painter  shows  himself  as  conscientious  as  he  is  bungling. 
Adam  with  the  air  of  a  stupid  domestic  apologises  for 
himself  and  pitifully  points  to  Eve,  who  with  a  not  less 
exaggerated  concern  for  herself  points  to  the  serpent 
'  It  is  not  my  fault  she  is  to  blame.'  '  It  is  not  my 
fault  but  his.'  The  artist  evidently  pursues  the  moral 
aspect  of  the  subject,  insisting  on  it  with  the  scrupulous 
fidelity  of  a  declining  school  of  art.  Raphael  never 
descended  to  this  point.  Another  sign  of  the  time,  one  of 
ecclesiastical  decency,  is  that  Eve  and  Adam  wear  aprons 
of  loaves.  The  body  and  head  of  the  woman,  however, 
and  the  cherubs  bearing  Jehovah  are  of  the  greatest 
beauty,  and  the  painting  is  solid.  Domenichino  was  a 
shoemaker's  son,  slow,  painstaking,  of  a  modest  gentle 
nature,  very  ugly,  unfortunate  in  love  poor,  criticised, 
oppressed,  wholly  absorbed  with  himself  and  seJi-mterro- 
gating,  and  without  always  getting  a  response,  like  a 
plant  which,  incompletely  developing  in  a  bad  atmosphere 


DOMENICHINO.  28\ 

and  under  frequent  showers,  produces  among  many  abortive 
blossoms  here  and  there  a  beautiful  flower. 

There  is  in  the  Rospigliosi  palace  another  '  Eve '  by 
him,  this  time  plucking  the  apple.  Eve  is  a  beautiful 
figure,  and  there  is  no  part  of  the  picture  that  does  not 
Bhow  careful  study.  But  what  an  odd  idea  the  display  of 
that  menagerie  of  animals  around  them,  and  that  red 
paroquet  on  the  tree  of  life  !  The  tree  has  on  it  a  hump, 
a  sort  of  step  by  which  Adam  is  mounting  upward.  On 
the  other  hand  his  *  Triumph  of  David,'  by  the  side  of 
this  overflows  with  genius  and  naturalness.  Nothing  can 
be  found  more  charming  and  animated  than  that  group  of 
females,  playing  on  musical  instruments ;  one  especially, 
bending  forward  and  extending  her  arms  with  a  sistrum 
in  her  hands,  with  a  blue  tunic  and  the  leg  bare,  is  in  ai? 
attitude  of  indescribable  grace ;  the  flesh  seems  to  be  im- 
pregnated with  light.  No  pose  of  the  human  structure, 
so  as  to  display  every  part  of  the  fine  animal  to  greater 
advantage,  could  possibly  be  given.  The  heads  are 
youthful,  and  of  true  virginal  grace  and  sincerity;  they 
are  creations.  We  see  a  man,  with  the  true  heart  of  a 
painter,  one  who  felt  the  beautiful  in  and  for  itself,  one 
who  is  seeking,  creating,  and  wres  fling  with  his  conception 
and  labouring  with  all  his  power  to  express  it,  and  not  a 
simple  manufacturer  of  figures  like  Guido.  '  Pie  was 
never  weary,'  says  his  biographer,  '  of  attending  large 
assemblies  of  people,  in  order  to  observe  the  attitudes  and 
expressions  by  which  innate  sentiments  are  made  mani- 
fest.' You  remark  throughout  all  his  productions  this 
effort  at  expression  and  sometimes  too  great,  as,  for  in- 
stance, the  irritated  aspect  of  Saul,  who  is  violently  clutch- 
big  his  tunic.  The  painter  aimed  to  show  the  joalousy 
of  one  who  half-betrays  and  half-restrains  himself. 
Painting,  however,  poorly  renders  complications  and  shade* 
of  sentiment;  psychology  is  not  its  business. 


232  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

This  palace  contains  the  celebrated  frescoed  ceiling  by 
Guido  called  the  '  Aurora.'  The  god  of  day  is  seated  on 
his  chariot  surrounded  by  a  choir  of  dancing  Hours,  pre- 
ceded by  the  early  morning  Hour  scattering  flowers.  The 
deep  blue  of  the  sea,  still  obscure,  is  charming.  There  is 
a  joyousness,  a  complete  pagan  amplitude  about  these 
blooming  goddesses,  with  their  hands  interlinked,  and 
all  dancing  as  if  at  an  antique  fete.  In  fact  he  copied 
the  antique,  the  Niobe  group,  for  instance,  and  in  this 
way  formed  his  style ;  the  type  once  found  he  always 
repeated  it,  consulting,  not  nature,  but  the  agreeableness 
of  the  effect  on  the  spectator's  mind.  Accordingly  his 
figures  generally  resemble  those  of  fashion  plates ;  for 
instance,  the  'Andromeda*  of  the  neighbouring  apart- 
ment, which  has  no  form  or  substance,  and  which,  in  fact, 
is  not  a  living  existence  but  only  a  combination  of  pleas- 
ing contours.  Guido  was  an  admired,  fortunate, 
worldly  artist,  accommodating  himself  to  the  taste  of  the 
day,  and  pleasing  the  ladies.  He  declared  that  he  had 
'  two  hundred  ways  of  making  the  eyes  look  up  to 
heaven.'  What  he  contributes  to  this  trifling,  gallant, 
already  satiated  society,  flourishing  with  sigisbes,  is  a 
delicate  effeminate  expression  unknown  to  the  old  masters 
— the  physiognomies  and  conventional  smiles  of  society. 
Veritable  energy,  the  interior  force  of  undisguised  pas- 
sion, had  already  disappeared  in  Italy ;  people  no  longer 
admired  the  true  virgins,  the  primitive  spirits,  the 
simple  peasants  of  Raphael,  but  the  sentimental  inmates 
of  convents  and  parlours  in  the  shape  of  highly  cultivated 
young  ladies.  The  bold  free  spirit  of  former  times  is  gone ; 
traces  of  republican  familiarity  no  longer  exist;  people 
converse  ceremoniously  according  to  etiquette,  using  sound- 
titles  and  obsequious  phrases  ;  since  the;  Spanish  conquest 
they  cease  to  address  each  other  as  brother  or  neighbour, 
but  don  the  title  of  monseigneur.  Tastes  change  aa 


THE  TASTE  OP  THE  EFFEMINATE.  25* 

natures  change.  Effeminate,  fastidious  people  dislike 
simple  and  strong  figures;  they  require  conventional 
smoothness,  sweet  smiles,  curiously  intermingled  tints, 
sentimental  visages,  the  pleasing  and  far-fetched  in 
everything ;  sometimes,  and  by  the  way  of  contrast,  they 
admire  the  audacity  of  Caravaggio,  the  crudity  and 
triviality  of  literal  imitation,  just  as  they  accept  a  glass  of 
brandy  after  twenty  of  sweetened  orgeat.  The  contrast 
is  apparent  in  the  Barberini  gallery  on  comparing  two 
celebrated  portraits,  which,  a  hundred  years  apart,  have 
been  regarded  affectionately  and  as  models  of  beauty. 
The  '  Fornarina'  by  Raphael  is  simply  a  body  with  a 
brunette  head,  a  hardened  look,  an  expression  vulgarly 
joyous,  strongly  marked  eyelids,  the  arms  too  large  below 
the  elbow,  and  the  shoulders  too  suddenly  falling,  in  short  a 
common  vigorous  woman  of  the  masses,  similar  to  the  baker 
girl  who  was  Lord  Byron's  mistress,  and  who  thee'd  and 
thoifd  him,  and  called  him  a  cane  della,  Madonna.  Kaphael 
certainly  found  nothing  in  this  figure,  but  a  human 
animal,  healthy  and  of  good  parts,  and  furnishing  him  with 
useful  suggestions  of  lines.  The  *  Cenci,'  on  the  contrary, 
by  Guido,  is  a  pale,  pretty,  and  delicate  creature ;  her 
small  chin,  mincing  mouth,  and  the  curves  of  the  face 
are  pleasing ;  draped  in  white  and  her  head  surrounded 
with  white  she  poses  like  a  model  to  be  studied.  She  is 
interesting  and  fragile ;  deprive  her  of  the  pallor  due  to  her 
melancholy  situation,  and  nothing  remains  but  an  amiable 
young  lady,  like  the  virgin  of  the  *  Annunciation '  in  the 
Louvre  before  the  Angel,  and  a  pretty  page.  This  is 
irhat  the  sonnet  writers  and  ladies  admire ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

I 

CHURCHES— CHARACTER  OF  THE  CHURCHES  OF  ROME-  THE  PIKTI 
OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES  AND  THE  DECORATION  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH 
CENTURY STRASBOURG  CATHEDRAL TRANSFORMATION  OF  CATHO- 
LICISM AFTER  THE  RENAISSANCE THE  GESU THE  JESUITICAL 

SPIRIT — TASTE   OF   THE   SIXTEENTH   CENTURY. 

IT  seems  that  your  friends  accuse  me  of  irreverence. 
One  visits  Rome  then  to  admire  everything,  and  to  take 
no  notice  of  the  dirty  beggars  and  garbage  on  the  corners 
of  the  streets !  As  you  please  my  worthy  friends  ;  I  am 
going  to  give  you  greater  offence.  Admit  that  I  am 
here  in  the  wrong  season,  that  I  record  hasty  impressions, 
that  I  talk  sacrilegiously  prompted  merely  by  curiosity  and 
a  love  of  history,  and  that  I  handle  neither  brush,  graver, 
nor  modelling  stick — all  of  which  is  true ;  but  let  every 
instrument  utter  its  own  music,  and  do  not  exact  from 
me  a  common,  monotonous  tune,  transmitted  from  one 
bird-organ  to  another  for  the  greater  glorification  of 
tradition.  I  could  never  admit,  for  instance,  that  the 
churches  of  Rome  are  Christian,  and  this  pains  me,  for  it 
will  prove  prejudicial  to  me.  If  there  is  any  place  on  the 
earth  where  it  is  proper  to  experience  compassion,  com- 
punction, veneration,  the  sublime  and  solemn  sentiment 
of  the  infinite,  of  the  beyond,  it  is  here;  unfortunately,  one 
feels  only  sentiments  of  the  opposite  character.  How  often 
by  contrast  have  I  thought  of  our  Gothic  churches — of 
Rheims,  Chartres,  Paris,  and  especially  Strasbourg  I  I 
had  revisited  Strasbourg  three  months  before  this,  and 


STRASBOURG  CATHEDRAL.  231 

had  passed  an  afternoon  alone  in  its  vast  interior 
drowned  in  shadow.  A  strange  light,  a  sort  of  dark 
nickering  purple,  died  away  in  the  impenetrable  black- 
ness. In  the  background  the  choir  and  apsis  with  their 
massive  circle  of  round  columns,  the  strong  primitive  half- 
Roman  church,  disappeared  in  night — an  antique  root 
buried  in  the  ground,  a  trunk  thick  and  indestructible, 
Around  which  the  entire  Gothic  vegetation  had  expanded 
and  flourished.  There  were  no  chairs  in  the  grand  nave, 
and  scarcely  more  than  four  or  five  of  the  devout  knelt 
there  or  wandered  about  like  spectres.  No  miserable 
housekeeping,  no  frippery  of  commonplace  worship,  no 
agitation  of  human  insects,  existed  there  to  trouble  the 
sanctity  of  solitude.  The  ample  space  between  the  pillars 
expanded  dark  beneath  the  vault,  filled  with  dubious  light 
and  almost  palpable  shadows.  Alone,  above  the  black 
choir  one  luminous  window  detached  itself,  crowded  with 
radiant  figures  as  if  a  glimpse  into  paradise. 

The  choir  was  filled  with  priests,  but  from  the  entrance 
one  could  distinguish  nothing,  so  deep  was  the  gloom  and 
BO  great  the  distance.  There  were  no  ornaments  visible 
and  no  petty  idols.  Alone  in  the  obscurity,  amongst 
grand  forms  scarcely  discernible,  two  chandeliers  with 
their  lighted  tapers  illuminated  the  two  corners  of  the 
ultar  like  two  trembling  spirits.  Chants  arose  and  fell 
at  regular  intervals  like  swinging  censers.  Occasionally 
the  clear  voices  of  children  in  the  distant  choir  made  one 
think  of  the  melody  of  cherubs,  and  from  time  to  time  an 
ample  modulation  of  the  organ  covered  all  sounds  with 
its  majestic  harmony. 

On  advancing,  Christian  ideas  invaded  the  mind  with 
fresh  power  proportionately  to  every  newly-disclosed 
aspect.  When,  on  reaching  the  apsis,  and  the  cold  deserted 
crypt  is  seen  in  which  the  stone  archbishop  lies  couched 
for  eternity,  like  a  Pharaoh  on  his  sepulchre,  and,  leaving 


236  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

the  funereal  vault  you  turn  away,  the  western  rose 
bursts  out  above  the  vast  obscurity  of  the  near  arches  in 
its  border  of  black  and  blue,  with  its  embroideries  oi 
crimson  and  purple,  its  innumerable  petals  of  amethyst 
and  emerald,  its  mournful  ardent  splendour  of  mystic 
jewels  flashing  and  sparkling  in  ruddy  magnificence 
Here  is  heaven,  as  disclosed  in  the  evening  dream  of  a 
spirit  that  loves  and  suffers.  Beneath,  like  a  silent 
northern  forest,  the  pillars  extend  their  colossal  files. 
Deep  shadows  and  the  violent  opposition  of  radiant  day- 
light image  the  Christian  life  plunged  into  this  melan- 
choly world  with  glimpses  of  the  world  beyond,  while  on 
both  sides,  lost  in  the  distance,  the  violet  and  crimson 
processions  on  the  window-panes,  the  whole  of  sacred 
history,  sparkle  in  revelations  appropriate  to  the  weak 
nature  of  man. 

How  these  barbarians  of  the  middle  ages  felt  the  con- 
trast of  lights  and  shadows  1  What  Rembrandts  there 
were  among  the  masons  who  prepared  these  mysterious 
undulations  of  glimmer  and  gloom  1  How  true  it  is 
that  art  is  only  expression,  that  above  all  one  must 
have  a  soul,  that  a  temple  is  not  a  heap  of  stones 
or  a  combination  of  forms,  but  at  once  and  uniquely  a 
religion  which  speaks  1  This  cathedral  throughout 
appeals  to  the  eyes  at  the  first  glance,  to  the  first  comer, 
to  a  poor  wood-chopper  of  the  Vosges  or  of  the  Black 
Forest,  half  brutish,  stupified  and  mechanical,  whose  thick 
envelope  no  reasoning  could  penetrate,  but  whose  mise- 
rable life  amidst  the  snows,  and  solitude  in  his  hut,  and 
dreams  under  pines  lashed  by  storms,  filled  with  sen- 
cations  and  instincts  here  aroused  by  every  form  and 
every  hue.  The  symbol  gives  all  at  the  first  impression 
and  makes  all  felt ;  it  goes  straight  to  the  heart  through 
the  eyes,  without  requiring  to  traverse  the  reasoning 
intellect.  A  man  has  no  need  of  culture  to  be  affected 


THE  GESU.  237 

by  tWs  enormous  aisle  with  its  grave  pillars  regularly 
arranged  and  never  weary  in  upholding  this  sublime  vault ; 
it  suffices  him  to  have  wandered  during  the  winter  months 
through  the  gloomy  forests  of  the  mountains.  There  ii  a 
world  here,  an  abridgement  of  the  great  world  as  Christi- 
anity conceives  it;  to  crawl,  to  grope  with  both  hands 
against  damp  walls  in  this  obscure  life,  amongst  vacilla- 
ting uncertain  gleams,  amongst  the  buzzings  and  bitter 
whisperings  of  the  human  hive,  and  for  consolation,  to 
perceive  here  and  there  aloft  in  the  air  radiant  figures, 
the  mantle  of  azure,  the  divine  eyes  of  a  Virgin  and  child, 
th<5  good  Christ  extending  his  benevolent  hands,  whilst  a 
concert  of  clear  silvery  notes  and  triumphant  hosannahs 
bear  the  soul  away  on  their  rolling  chords  and  sym- 
phonies. 

The  Gesu,  March  15. — These  are  the  souvenirs,  and 
others  similiar  to  them,  which  spoil  for  me  or  rather 
which  explain  to  me  the  churches  of  Rome.  They  are 
almost  all  of  the  seventeenth  century  or  of  the  end  of  the 
sixteenth,  and  bear  the  mark  of  the  Catholic  restoration 
following  upon  the  council  of  Trent.  Departing  from 
this  epoch,  the  religious  sentiment  becomes  transformed ; 
the  Jesuits  have  the  ascendency.  They  possess  a  taste,  as 
they  possess  a  theology  and  a  political  scheme ;  always 
a  new  conception  of  divine  and  human  things  produces  a 
new  mode  of  comprehending  beauty ;  man  speaks  in  his 
decorations,  in  his  capitals,  in  his  cupolas,  often  more 
clearly  and  always  more  sincerely  than  in  his  actions  and 
in  his  writings. 

In  order  to  see  this  taste  in  full  display  it  is  necessary 
to  visit  the  Gesu  near  the  piazza  in  Venice,  the  central 
monument  of  the  society,  built  by  Vignolles  and  Jacques 
della  Porta  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
The  grand  pagan  renaissance  perpetuates  itself  here,  but 
with  modifications.  The  semi-circular  arches,  the  cupola, 


288  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND  CHURCHES. 

the  pilasters,  the  pediments,  all  the  great  parts  of  archi« 
lecture  are,  as  in  the  renaissance  itself,  renewed  from  the 
antique ;  but  the  rest  is  a  decoration,  and  turns  into  luxury 
and  gewgaws.  With  the  solidity  of  its  foundation  and  the 
soundness  of  its  forms,  with  the  pompous  majesty  o! 
its  pilasters  crowned  with  gilded  capitals,  its  painted 
domes  eddying  with  grand  figures  draped  and  half-naked, 
its  paintings  framed  in  with  borderings  of  sculptured  gold, 
its  angels  in  relief  springing  over  the  edges  of  their 
brackets,  this  church  resembles  a  magnificent  banquet- 
hall,  some  regal  hotel  de  mile  decked  out  with  all  its  silver 
and  glass, its  damask  hangings,  and  curtains  garnished  with 
lace,  in  order  to  receive  a  monarch  and  do  him  the  honourg 
of  a  city.  The  cathedral  of  the  middle  ages  suggested 
sublime  and  melancholy  reveries,  a  sentiment  of  human 
misery,  the  vague  divination  of  an  ideal  kingdom  in  which 
the  passionate  heart  finds  its  consolation  and  its  transports. 
The  temple  of  the  Catholic  restoration  inspires  sentiments 
of  submission,  of  admiration,  or  at  least  of  deference  to 
this  personage  so  powerful,  so  long-established,  and  espe- 
cially so  accredited  and  so  richly  furnished,  called  the 
Church. 

Out  of  all  this  imposing  and  dazzling  decoration  one 
idea  issues  in  the  shape  of  a  proclamation:  'Ancient 
Rome  reunited  the  universe  in  a  single  empire ;  I  re- 
new it  and  I  succeed  to  her.  What  she  has  done  for 
the  body  I  will  do  for  minds.  Through  my  missions,  my 
seminaries,  my  hierarchy,  I  will  establish  universally, 
eternally,  and  magnificently,  the  Church.  This  Church  is 
not,  as  Protestants  desire  it,  an  assembly  of  awakened  and 
independent  spirits,  each  active  and  reasoning  over  his 
Bible  and  his  conscience;  nor,  as  the  early  Christiana 
desired,  an  assembly  of  tender  saddened  souls,  mystically 
united  through  ecstatic  communion  and  the  expectation 
of  the  kingdom  of  God ;  but  an  organisation  of  ordained 


THE   DOMINANT  IDEA   OF  THE  JESUITS.  831 

powers,  a  sacred  institution  subsisting  through  itself  and 
sovereign  over  all  minds.  She  is  not  a  part  of  them,  is 
not  dependent  on  them,  but  has  her  source  within  hersel£ 
She  is  a  kind  of  intermediary  Deity,  substituted  for  the 
Creator,  and  endowed  with  all  his  rights.' 

Such  an  ambition  has  its  own  grandeur,  and  gives  rise 
to  powerful  sentiments.  Undoubtedly  it  has  nothing  in 
common  with  the  inward  life  of  the  spirit,  with  the  con- 
stant questioning  of  the  Christian  conscience  occupied  in 
self  examination  before  a  just  God ;  but  is  wholly  human, 
and  resembles  the  zeal  which  a  monk  felt  for  his  order, 
or  a  French  subject  of  the  seventeenth  century  for  the 
monarchy ;  man  feels  himself  comprehended  in  a  vast 
durable  institution  which  he  prefers  to  himself,  in  which  he 
forgets  himself,  for  which  he  labours  and  to  which  he  de- 
votes himself.  It  was  the  passion  of  a  Roman  for  Rome  ; 
the  new  Rome  in  fact  is  to  antique  Rome  what  one  of 
its  churches  with  its  dome  is  to  the  Pantheon  of  Agrippa, 
that  is  to  say,  an  altered  overloaded  copy;  the  same 
however  at  bottom,  save  this  difference,  that  the  govern- 
ment of  the  second  Rome  is  spiritual  and  not  temporal, 
and  goes  from  soul  to  body  and  not  from  body  to  souL 
In  one  as  in  the  other  the  object  is  to  regulate  all  human 
life  according  to  a  preconceived  plan,  to  subject  it  to  an  abso- 
lute authority,  outside  of  which  all  seems  disorder  and  bar- ' 
barism.  Where  one  employed  force  the  other  employs  skill, 
management,  patience,  and  the  calculations  of  diplomacy 
and  of  policy;  but  fundamentally  the  heart  has  not 
changed,  and  in  respect  to  spiritual  habits,  nothing  is  more 
like  a  Roman  senator  than  a  Catholic  priest. 

It  is  at  this  point  of  view  that  one  must  place  himself 
in  order  to  comprehend  the  ecclesiastical  edifices  of  thii 
country.  They  glorify  not  Christianity  but  the  Church, 
This  new  Catholicism  rests  upon  numerous  supports  and 
all  of  them  are  solid. 


240  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHUECHES. 

On  habit. — Man  has  a  sheep-like  intelligence ,  out 
of  a  hundred  persons  not  three  possess  leisure  or 
mind  with  which  to  shape  for  themselves  an  opinion  on 
religious  matters.  The  way  is  marked  out ;  ninety-seven 
follow  it :  of  the  remaining  three,  two  and  a  half  having 
groped  about  fruitlessly,  return  wearied  to  the  beaten 
traok 

On  the  beautiful  regularity  and  imposing  exterior  of 
the  institution. — Since  the  Council  of  Trent  ecclesiastical 
discipline  has  become  more  stringent ;  under  the  counter- 
blow of  the  Reformation  they  have  provided  for  the  educa- 
tion and  decent  deportment  of  the  clergy. 

On  the  pomp  and  prestige  of  the  cult  and  of  edifices ;  on 
the  great  works  accomplished,  missions,  conversions ;  on 
the  antiquity  of  the  institution ;  and  on  all  that  which 
Chateaubriand  has  developed  in  his  beautiful  style. 

On  a  superstitious  imagination  more  or  less  great 
according  to  climate,  very  strong  in  southern  countries, 
and  terrible  at  the  hour  of  death. — A  man  of  warm  blood, 
with  highly  coloured,  passionate  conceptions,  is  possessed 
through  the  eyes.  I  have  seen  many  who  believed  them- 
selves rationalists  and  Voltaireans ;  a  funeral  ceremony, 
the  sight  of  a  Madonna  in  her  glittering  shrine  amidst  the 
flashing  ot  tapers  and  clouds  of  incense,  put  them  beside 
themselves,  and  brought  them  to  the  ground  on  their 
knees. 

On  repressive  utility. — Governments,  people  of  esta- 
blished position,  proprietors  and  conservatives,  find  in  it 
additional  police  security,  that  of  the  moral  order  of  things. 

On  the  portion  of  virtue  developed  in  it.  —  Certain 
iioble  souls  ire  born  into  it,  or,  through  natural  delicacy, 
recover  the  poesy  of  mystic  tradition,  like  Eugenie  de 
Guerin. 

These  are  only  general  demarcations ;  there  are  othei 
traits  more  special  added  by  the  Jesuits,  and  which  are 


CATHOLICISM   AFTER  THE   BENAISSASCE.  241 

peculiar  to  the  order ;  you  advance  twenty  paces  in  thii 
church  and  they  are  at  once  perceptible.  In  these  deli- 
cate, ingenious  hands  religion  becomes  worldly,  and 
strives  to  please;  she  decks  her  temple  like  a  saloon, 
and  even  overdecks  it ;  it  might  be  said  that  she  displays 
her  wealth ;  she  tries  tu  please  the  eyes,  to  dazzle  them, 
to  pique  wearied  attention,  to  appear  gallant  and  smart 
The  little  rotundas  on  the  two  sides  of  the  great  nave  are 
charming  marble  cabinets,  cool,  and  dimly  lighted,  like 
the  boudoirs  and  bathing  rooms  of  pretty  women.  Pre- 
cious marble  columns  raise  their  polished  shafts  on  all 
sides,  or  are  entwined  with  tints  of  orange,  rose,  and 
verd-antique.  A  tapestry  of  marble  covers  the  walls 
with  its  motley  hues ;  pretty  angels,  in  white  marble, 
spring  about  over  the  cornices  and  display  their  elegant 
legs.  Multiplied  gildings  run  amongst  the  capitals, 
flash  around  the  paintings,  spread  themselves  in  halos 
over  the  altars,  crawl  along  the  balustrades  in  luminous 
threads,  mount  upward  in  the  sanctuaries  in  laboured 
boxiquets  of  prodigal  efflorescence,  giving  the  air  of  a 
fete,  and  suggesting  a  princely  gallery  arranged  for  a 
ball.  Amidst  these  glimmering  golden  reflections,  among 
these  incrustations  of  coloured  marbles,  through  an 
atmosphere  still  fragant  with  incense,  one  sees  grand 
groups  of  white  marble  in  motion,  proclaiming  the  new 
spirit  of  orthodoxy  and  obedience,  Religion  striking 
Heresy  to  the  ground,  and  the  Church  overwhelming  false 
teachers.  On  the  left,  behind  a  bronze  balustrade, 
rises  the  throne  of  the  patron  saint  of  the  place,  the 
grand  altar  of  St.  Ignatius,  crowded  with  pretty- 
gilded  cherubs  playing  in  frames  of  agate,  so  adorned 
and  embellished  as  to  be  unequalled,  except  by  the 
scaffolding  of  figures,  flambeaux,  foliage,  and  gilding 
overhead,  forming  a  pile  as  confused  as  the  garniture  of  a 


243  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

royal  chimney,  or  that  of  a  reposoir.*  Here,  in  the  hand 
of  the  Eternal  is  the  celebrated  orb  of  lapis-lazuli,  the 
largest  piece  known  in  the  world,  and  the  silver  statue  of 
St.  Ignatius,  nine  feet  high.  A  priest,  sweeping  in  the 
Enclosure,  raises  the  carpet  in  order  to  show  me  the 
marble  incrustations;  he  passes  his  hand  complacently 
over  the  lustrous  agates,  and  mournfully  alludes  to  the 
goiden  flambeaux  carried  off  during  the  wars  of  the 
Revolution ;  he  is  very  glad  to  be  attached  to  such  a 
beautiful  altar,  much  preferring  it  to  that  of  the  choir, 
which  he  regards  as  too  simple.  He  entreats  me  to  return 
on  the  following  day  in  order  to  see  with  my  own  eyes  the 
silver  statue  nine  feet  high ;  to-day  it  is  under  cover ;  '  It 
is  all  silver,  monsieur,  and  nine  feet  high  !  There  is 
nothing  like  it  in  the  world  ! '  The  peasant,  the  labourer 
of  the  seventeenth  century,  timidly  uncovered  himself  on 
entering  the  house  of  so  rich  a  personage.  The  gentle- 
man, the  dandy,  found  kindred  society  amidst  furniture 
as  pompous  and  as  flashy  as  his  own.  Besides,  he 
encountered  ladies  in  rich  attire,  and  listened  to  excel- 
lent music. 

All  this  forms  part  of  a  system.  You  become  sensible 
of  it  on  overrunning  southern  countries.  It  was  already 
familiar  to  me  in  Belgium,  on  the  good,  peaceable,  docile 
soil  recovered  by  the  Duke  of  Parma ;  in  the  Jesuits' 
church  at  Antwerp ;  in  the  inner  decoration  of  almost  all 
the  old  cathedrals  ;  in  that  famous  pulpit  of  St.  Gudule, 
a  veritable  garden,  on  which  is  sculptured  foliage,  trellise?, 
leaves,  a  peacock,  an  eagle,  all  kinds  of  beasts,  the  entire 
menagerie  of  Eden,  Adam  and  Eve  decently  clothed,  and 
the  would-be  angry  angel,  but  nevertheless  smiling.  All 
Jesuitical  objects  thus  wear  a  smiling,  concocted  aspect, 
awakening  ideas  of  convenience  and  pleasure :  above 
the  head  of  the  preacher,  for  example,  is  a  celestial  bed  of 

•  An  altar  erected  for  ceremonies  in  the  open  air. 


THE  JESUITICAL  SPIRIT.  24* 

clouds  similar  to  an  alcove,  and,  still  higher,  the  Madonna, 
in  the  shape  of  a  tall  graceful  young  lady  with  pretty 
dainty  arms,  ready  for  a  ball.  The  commentary  on  this 
system  of  decoration  is  the  Imago  primi  sceculi,  a  splendid 
illustrated  work,  which  serves  as  the  manifest  of  Jesuitic 
taste.  In  this  the  Jesuit  appears  as  nurse  rocking  the 
divine  doll,  or  again  as  the  Jesuit  fisherman  hauling  up 
souls  in  a  net,  while  underneath  its  designs  are  Latin  and 
French  verses  in  true  collegiate  style,  nice  little  conceits, 
precious  wordplay,  intellectual  recreations,  and  sweet 
nothings ;  in  brief,  all  the  sugar  plums  of  devout  con- 
fectionery. 

If  they  have  manufactured  sugar  plums  it  is  with 
genius.  The  proof  is  that  they  have  reconquered  the  half 
of  Europe,  and  if  they  have  been  successful,  it  is  owing 
to  their  having  discovered  one  of  the  leading  ideas  of 
their  age.  Catholicism  at  this  time  had  to  wheel  about 
in  order  to  save  itself,  and  it  was  through  them  that  the 
manoeuvre  was  accomplished.  After  the  universal  glorious 
renaissance,  in  the  midst  of  the  industrial  pursuits  and  the 
arts,  and  the  new  sciences  which  sheltered,  embellished, 
and  expanded  human  life,  the  ascetic  religion  of  the 
middle  ages  could  no  longer  subsist.  The  world  could 
no  longer  be  regarded  as  a  dungeon,  man  as  a  worm,  and 
nature  as  a  temporary  fragile  veil,  miserably  interposed 
between  God  and  the  soul,  with  only  glimpses  here  and 
there  through  its  rents  of  a  supernatural  sphere  alone 
substantial  and  subsistent.  People  began  to  rely  on 
human  force,  and  on  reason ;  they  began  to  realise  the 
stability  of  natural  laws,  to  enjoy  the  partial  protection 
arising  from  the  establishment  of  regular  monarchies,  and 
to  relish  greedily  the  prosperity  flowing  in  upon  them 
from  all  sides.  Health  and  energy  had  revived,  and 
stout  muscles,  a  well-balanced  brain,  the  warm  ruddy 
glow  of  life  coursing  through  the  veins  repelled  the  fever 

B  2 


244  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

of  mysticism,  the  gloomy  visions,  the  agonies  and  ecstatic 
transports  due  to  a  spare  diet  and  over-excitement  ol 
the  nervous  system.  Religion  was  compelled  to  ac- 
commodate herself  to  man's  new  condition  ;  she  was 
forced  to  become  more  moderate,  to  withdraw  or  modify 
tier  maledictions  of  this  earthly  sphere,  to  authorise  or 
tolerate  natural  instincts,  to  accept  openly  or  indirectly 
the  expansion  of  a  temporal  life,  and  no  longer  to  con- 
demn the  taste  for,  and  the  quest  of  comfort  and  wealth. 
She  conformed  to  the  times,  and  north  ab  well  as  south, 
amongst  Germans  as  well  as  amongst  Latins,  Christianity 
could  be  seen  insensibly  approaching  this  world.  The 
Protestant  honoured  free  institutions,  useful  labour,  a 
solemn  marriage,  family  life,  the  honest  accumulation  of 
wealth,  the  modest  enjoyment  of  domestic  happiness  and 
bodily  comfort.  *  Our  business,'  says  Addison ;  'is  to 
be  easy  here,  and  happy  hereafter.'  The  Jesuit  modified 
the  formidable  doctrine  of  grace ;  he  explained  away  the 
rigid  prescriptions  of  councils  and  of  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church ;  he  invented  peculiar  indulgences,  an  easy  system 
of  morality,  an  accommodating  casuistry,  convenient 
devotional  duties,  and,  through  an  adroit  management  of 
distinctions,  restrictions,  interpretations,  probabilities, 
and  other  theological  briars,  succeeded  with  his  supple 
hands  in  setting  man  free  in  the  realm  of  pleasure. 
'  Amuse  yourself,  keep  young  and  see  me  occasionally, 
and  tell  me  what  you  are  doing.  Rely  upon  it  I  will 
show  you  many  favours.' 

But  in  letting  one  rein  go  slack  another  had  to  ke 
tightened.  Against  unruly  instincts,  only  half-rest  rained, 
the  Protestant  erected  a  barrier  in  the  shape  of  a  tender 
conscience,  an  appeal  to  reason,  and  an  orderly  laborious 
activity.  The  Jesuit  sought  one  in  a  methodical  and 
mechanical  control  of  the  imagination.  This  is  hia 
great  stroke  of  genius.  He  discovered  in  human  nature 


TASTE  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY.  245 

a  deep  unknown  stratum,  the  support  of  all  the  rest,  and 
which,  once  inclined,  communicated  its  inclination  to  all 
the  other  a,  so  that  henceforth  everything  moves  along  the 
orb  it  thus  formed.  The  spring  within  us  is  not  reason 
nor  reasoning,  but  'magery.  Sensuous  appearances  once 
introiuced  into  our  brains  they  shape  and  repeat  them- 
selves, and  take  root  there  along  with  involuntary  affinities 
and  adhesions,  »o  that  afterwards,  when  we  act,  it  is  in 
the  sense  of,  and  vkrough  the  impulsion  of  forces  thus  pro- 
duced; our  will  wlvlly  springs  up,  like  growing  vegeta- 
tion, from  invisible  seeds,  which  an  internal  fermentation 
causes  to  germinate  without  our  assistance.  Whoever  is 
master  of  the  obscure  cavern  in  which  this  operation  takes 
place  is  master  of  the  mt»n ;  all  he  has  to  do  is  to  sow  the 
seed,  direct  the  subterranean  growth,  and  the  adult  plant 
becomes  whatever  he  chooses  to  make  it.  It  is  necessary 
to  read  their  Exercitia  Spir'tualia  in  ordei  to  know  how, 
without  poetry,  without  phil osophy,  without  employing  any 
of  the  noble  impulses  of  religion,  man  is  got  possession 
of.  They  have  a  prescription  for  rendering  people 
devout ;  they  make  use  of  it  in  their  retreats,  and  its 
effect  is  certain. 

'  The  first  point,'  say  these  tlever  psychologists,*  *  is 
to  construct  an  imaginary  place,  that  is  to  say,  to  figure 
to  oneself  the  synagogues,  the  hamlets,  and  the  towns 

which  Christ  visited  on  his  mission Represent  to 

yourself  as  if  in  a  vision  of  the  imagination,  a  material 
locality,  for  example,  a  temple  or  a  mountain,  on  which 
you  observe  Jesus  Christ  or  the  Virgin  Mary,  and  other 

objects  relating  to  meditation The  second  point  is 

to  understand  interiorly  what  all  these  personages  say ; 
for  example,  the  divine  personages  conversing  together  in 
Heaven  on  the  redemption  of  the  human  race,  or  ratner 
the  Virgin  and  the  angel  in  a  small  apartment  treating 
*  Edition  of  1644,  pp.  62,  80,  96,  120,  104,  106. 


246  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

together  of  the  mystery  of  the  Incarnation If  an 

incorporeal  object  forms  the  substance  of  our  meditation, 
as,  for  instance,  the  consideration  of  sin,  a  place  may  be 
constructed  by  the  imagination  in  such  a  way  as  to  enable 
us  to  contemplate  our  soul  enchained  in  a  prison,  in  this 
corruptible  body,  and  man  himself  an  exile  in  the  vallej 
of  tears  among  senseless  brutes.'  Likewise,  in  order 
seriously  to  feel  the  condition  of  the  Christian,  it  is  well 
to  conceive  two  armies,  Christ  with  the  saints  and  angels 
in  a  vast  field  near  Jerusalem,  and  Lucifer, ( chief  of  the 
impious,  in  another  field  near  Babylon,  on  a  seat  of  raging 
fire  and  smoke,  horrible  in  his  aspect,  and  with  a  terrible 
countenance.  After  this,  it  is  important  to  place  before 
your  eyes  this  same  Lucifer  invoking  innumerable 
demons  and  despatching  them  to  do  all  possible  injury  to 
the  universe,  without  exempting  from  their  attacks  any 
city,  any  place,  or  any  class  of  persons.'  Every  turn  of 
the  wheel  is  labelled.  If  it  concerns  hell,  *  the  first 
point  is  to  contemplate  through  the  imagination  the  vast 
conflagrations  of  that  region,  and  the  souls  surrounded 
by  material  fire  as  in  a  dungeon.  The  second  is  to  hear 
through  the  imagination  the  plaints,  the  sobs,  the  yells, 
bursting  forth  against  Christ  and  the  saints.  The  third 
is  to  inhale  through  the  imagination  the  smoke,  sulphur, 
and  stench  of  a  sink  of  filth  and  corruption.  The  fourth 
is  to  taste  through  the  imagination  the  most  bitter  things, 
like  tears,  sourness,  and  the  gnawing  worm  of  con- 
science. The  fifth  is  to  touch  these  fires,  the  contact  with 
which  consumes  souls.'  Every  cog  of  the  wheel  grinds 
at  every  revolution  ;  first  come  the  images  of  sight,  then 
of  hearing,  then  of  smell,  then  of  taste,  and  then  of  touch ; 
the  repetition  and  persistency  of  the  shock  deepen  the  im- 
pression. One  must  thus  labour  at  this  five  hours  a  day. 
No  diversion  is  permitted  in  the  intervals  of  repose.  No- 
body is  to  be  seen  in  the  world  outside.  All  conversation 


TASTE  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY.  24* 

with  the  brethren  within  is  interdicted.  They  must  care- 
fully abstain  from  reading  or  writing  anything  irrelevant 
to  the  day's  meditations,  and  at  night  they  again  resume. 
Based  upon  experience,  this  treatment  produces  its  effect 
in  five  weeks.  In  my  opinion,  this  is  too  long.  I  know  of 
many  who,  subjected  to  such  a  system,  would  experience 
hallucinations,  in  a  fortnight,  and  to  the  ardent  imagina- 
tion of  women,  children,  or  shattered  and  saddened  brains, 
ten  days  is  ample.  Thus  beaten  and  hammered  in,  the 
imprint  remains  indestructible.  Let  the  torrent  of  passion 
or  of  worldly  joys  flow  as  it  will,  at  the  end  of  twenty  or 
thirty  years,  in  periods  of  anguish  and  on  the  approach  of 
death,  the  profound  impression  over  which  it  will  have 
vainly  flowed  always  reappears. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SANTA  MARIA  DEL  POPOLO THE  CAPUCHIN  CONVENT SANTA  HARM 

DEGLI     ANGELI THE     CARTHUSIAN     CONVENT RELICS — SANTA 

MAPJA    BELLA    VITTORIA ST.    THERESA   BY   BERNINI — DEVOTION 

AND     LOVE     IN     THE    SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY — THE    QUIRINAL 
GARDENS. 

March  18. — We  have  to-day  visited  five  or  six  churches ; 
their  architecture  is  often  too  pretentious,  too  affected  and 
even  extravagant,  but  never  vulgar. 

The  first  is  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo,  a  church  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  modernised  by  Bernini,  but  still  impres- 
sive. Wide  arcades  in  rows  separate  the  great  nave  from 
the  lesser  ones,  and  the  effect  of  these  bold  curves  is 
grave  and  grand.  So  many  tombs  produce  a  tragical 
impression  ;  the  church  is  crowded  with  them  ;  t\v  enty 
cardinals  have  their  monuments  here.  Their  statues  re- 
pose on  stone ;  other  effigies  dream  or  pray  half  reclin- 
ing; frequently  a  bust  only  is  seen,  and  sometimes  a 
death's  head  above  a  monumental  tablet  bearing  an  in- 
scription ;  several  sepulchres  lie  beneath  the  pavement, 
and  the  feet  of  the  faithful  have  worn  off  the  relief  of  the 
figures  on  the  stones  that  cover  them.  Death  is  present 
and  palpable  everywhere ;  under  the  funereal  slab  you  feel 
that  there  are  bones,  the  miserable  remains  of  a  man,  and 
that  those  cold  motionless  marble  forms  reposing  eternally 
in  a  corner  of  the  chapel,  with  uplifted  meagre  fingers,  art 
all  that  subsists  of  the  warm  palpitating  life,  which  con- 
sumed itself  in  its  own  flume  before  the  world  to  leave 


THE  CAPUCHIN   CONVENT.  249 

nothing  but  this  heap  of  ashes.  Our  French  churches  have 
not  this  funereal  pomp.  In  this  marble  cemetery,  among 
these  magnificences  and  menaces,  before  these  chapels 
as  brilliant  as  agate  and  decked  with  crossbones,  before 
these  statues  of  imposing  saints  and  these  bronze  skulls 
inlaid  and  glittering  in  the  stone,  one  is  bewildered  and 
afraid.  Our  popular  theatres  catch  the  people  with  rich 
decoration  and  murderous  denouements. 

This  process  is  still  more  apparent  among  the 
Capuchins  of  the  Piazza  Barbermi  As  we  reached  this 
square  we  encountered  a  passing  funeral  procession. 
Behind  marched  a  file  of  monks  in  white,  bearing  tapers, 
their  black  eyes,  the  only  signs  of  animation  about  them, 
gleaming  beneath  their  cowls.  After  these  a  second  file 
followed,  composed  of  Capuchins  with  grey  beards  aud 
white  heads,  rolling  the  beads  of  their  rosaries  in  their 
fingers  and  chanting  doleful  psalmody.  We  see  similar 
characters  at  the  opera,  and  they  excite  laughter.  Here 
the  solemnity  of  death  is  overwhelming. 

We  entered  their  convent,  which  is  quite  mediocre. 
The  long  arcade  within  is  tapestried  with  bad  portraits  of 
monks,  bearing  inscriptions  in  verse  on  death,  and  very 
edifying,  that  is  to  say,  terrifying.  It  is  painful  to  see 
these  poor  creatures,  almost  all  of  ripe  age,  without  family 
or  friends,  uselessly  devoting  their  lives  to  self-extinction. 
On  the  walls  hang  printed  notices  prescribing  the  prayers 
and  stations  of  holy  week  that  secure  plenary  indulgence, 
also  the  duties  of  lesser  efficacy  by  which  ten  years  of  in- 
dulgence are  gained  for  other  parties  and  therefore  trans- 
ferable. What  can  an  ordinary  monk  think  of  here  but 
of  laying  up  a  store  of  pardons  ?  It  is  capital  for  him  ;  if 
he  has  friends,  a  nephew  or  a  god-child,  or  an  old  dead 
father,  he  can  present  them  with  his  surplus.  He  ia 
eimply  anxious  to  employ  his  time  advantageously,  to 
select  the  most  productive  chapels,  to  execute  as  many 


250  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND  CHURCHES. 

genuflexions  and  recitations  as  possible.  If  he  is  a  good 
manager,  and  perseveres,  he  will  redeem  five  or  six  souls 
besides  his  own.  The  great  Saint  Liguori,  the  moat  ac- 
credited theologian  of  the  last  century,  held  to  this 
principle  :  a  zealous  Christian  is  almost  sure  of  avoiding 
hell ;  but  as  no  one  is  exempt  from  sin,  it  is  almost  certain 
that  nobody  will  escape  purgatory  ;  accordingly,  if  a  man 
b  wise,  he  will  daily  add  to  his  capital  stock  of  in- 
dulgences. Suppose  that  he  gains  a  hundred  days 
to-day — and  he  can  do  this  with  a  single  prayer — he 
will  get  out  of  purgatory  just  three  months  and  ten  days 
earlier. 

For  lack  of  other  outlets,  and  through  poverty,  the 
peasantry  have  to  furnish  recruits,  and,  once  becoming 
monks,  hoard  up  indulgences,  as  a  rustic  lays  up  crowns ; 
such  an  occupation  befits  their  condition,  education,  and 
intelligence.  Besides  this,  they  go  outside  their  convent, 
and  for  a  few  sous  attend  at  funerals.  As  the  order  baa 
preserved  somewhat  of  its  ancient  popular  spirit,  they  visit 
respectable  women  and  recommend  curatives  ;  they  teach 
prayers  and  make  presents  of  amulets,  and,  moreover, 
offer  pinches  of  snuff,  and  furnish  the  recipe  for  a  certain 
kind  of  salad.— There  are  about  four  thousand  monks  in 
Rome,* 

We  went  through  the  church  and  saw  several  pictures 
by  Guido  :  a  charming  f  St.  Michael,'  with  bare  legs  and 
bootees,  an  amiable  brilliant  military  page,  with  the  head 
of  an  amoroso ;  by  its  side,  and  by  way  of  contrast,  is  a 
'  St.  Francis,'  by  Domenichino,  a  wasted,  haggard  figure. 
In  another  building  is  the  cell  of  a  celebrated  monk ;  an 
altar  is  placed  here,  to  which  the  Pope  comes  to  say 
mass.  All  these  traces  of  mediaeval  asceticism,  this  in- 
fantile and  barbarian  devotion,  this  mode  of  exalting  and 

*  Stato  delle  Anime  dell'  alma  citta  di  Roma,  1863 ;  in  all  6494  eccle- 
siastics. 


THE  CAPUCHIN  CONVENT.  251 

debasing  man,  is  distressing.  The  monk  that  conducted 
ns  about  the  convent  is  almost  a  fool,  a  miserable  idiot ;  he 
utters  profound  sighs,  and  always  repeats  himself  in  a 
shattered  voice,  and  with  a  vacant  stare.  Intende  poco, 
exclaims  the  monk  that  replaces  him. 

The  latter  led  us  into  a  subterranean  chapel,  containing 
a  horrible  and  extraordinary  pile  of  mummies.  Five 
years  in  the  ground  of  this  cemetery  suffice  to  dry  up  a 
body :  no  other  preparation  is  necessary,  and  the  body 
is  then  displayed  with  the  rest.  Four  chambers  are 
filled  with  these  skeletons,  arranged  in  groups  in  a  deco- 
rative manner.  Thigh-bones,  shoulder-blades,  arms,  and 
the  pelvis  are  fashioned  into  bouquets,  garlands,  and 
elegant  tapestry.  A  singular  taste  and  ingenuity  have 
regulated  the  disposition  of  this  furniture :  sometimes  a 
skull  is  suspended  at  the  end  of  a  chain  of  vertebra?, 
which  descends  from  the  ceiling,  and  forms  a  lamp  ;  again, 
a  couple  of  arms  spread  out  their  joints  and  knotty 
fingers  in  the  guise  of  pendants  above  a  mantel-piece : 
hollow  thigh  bones  are  arranged  one  above  another  like 
rows  of  pitchers  upon  a  handsome  buffet ;  while  along 
the  wall,  and  over  the  arch,  the  radius  runs  in  compli- 
cated designs  and  pretty  capricious  arabesques ;  here  and 
there  in  a  corner  numerous  thoracic  cages  bristle  with 
white  stories  of  ribs  and  clavicles.  The  soil  consists  of 
ranges  of  graves,  some  full,  and  others  awaiting  their  oc- 
cupants. The  recent  dead  lie  in  their  cowls,  one  of  whom 
the  monk  pointed  out  as  his  friend,  deceased  in  1858 ;  he 
was,  a  very  large  man,  but  the  cemetery  has  so  attenuated 
and  reduced  him  that  his  yellow  skin  clings  to  his  rigid 
arms  and  face,  and  the  flesh  seems  to  have  melted  away 
Our  monk  added  that  two  of  the  brethren  are  now  quite 
ill,  and  that  one  would  probably  die  that  night,  and  hedesig- 
nated  the  grave  already  prepared  for  him.  This  poor  man  in 
his  grey  beard  and  old  swimming  eyes,  narrated  all  thii 


232  VILLAS,    PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

quite  merrily,  laughing  as  he  spoke ;  it  is  impossible  to  de- 
scribe the  effect  of  such  gaiety  in  such  a  place,  and  on  such 
a  subject.  Each  monk,  remember,  resorts  to  this  chapel 
daily  to  pray ;  imagine  the  physical  gripe  of  such  machi- 
nery on  a  man,  and  how  it  must  shape  and  distort  him  I 

We  required  a  change  of  air,  and  went  to  Santa  Maria 
degli  Angeli,  near  by.  It  was  once  the  library  of  the 
Baths  of  Diocletian.  The  Romans  came  here  after 
bathing  to  converse,  and  to  pass  away  the  hot  horn's  of 
the  day.  Michael  Angelo  converted  it  into  a  church,  and 
under  Benedict  XIV.,  Vanvitelli  remodelled  the  entire 
edifice.  For  a  reading-room  or  promenade  one  cannot 
imagine  a  graver,  more  airy,  and  more  suitable  place.  It 
was  admirable  for  thought;  the  magnificent  gigantic 
columns  still  remaining  are  worthy  to  support  the  noble 
span  and  ample  rotundity  of  the  enormous  vault  above  1 
Always  does  the  same  impression  recur  to  you  at  Rome, 
that  of  a  Christianity  badly  veneered  on  ancient  pa- 
ganism. 

An  honest  grey-headed  Carthusian  led  the  way  to  a 
fresco  by  Domenichino  in  the  choir.  This  vast  painting 
represents  the  martyrdom  of  St.  Sebastian,  and  is  very 
beautiful; — but  look  at  its  effect.  The  artist  evidently 
intended  to  portray  a  collection  of  attitudes ;  you  see  a 
man  on  horseback,  several  executioners  bending  forward 
and  backward,  another  on  his  knees  selecting  arrows,  a 
woman  resting  entirely  on  one  leg,  as  if  about  to  run,  and 
another  kneeling  almost  under  a  horse's  feet,  all  of  which 
personages  are  going  to  come  in  collision.  Above,  ar« 
angels  supporting  a  crown,  soaring  and  seeming  to  swim 
along  as  if  they  delighted  in  displaying  their  limbs.  The 
flesh  is  animated ;  some  portions  of  the  bodies  remind  you 
of  the  Venetian  style  ;  besides  this  there  are  several  females 
with  most  expressive  physiognomies,  and,  throughout,  a 
kind  of  joyousness  and  a  lustre  diffused  over  the  agitated, 


RELICS   IN  THE   CARTHUSIAN   CONVENT.  253 

struggling  mass  of  figures,  floating  draperies,  and 
beautiful,  luminous  flesh.  The  total  effect  is  that  of  a 
grand,  rich,  studied,  successful  sentiment  of  bravery. 
This  painting,  so  worldly,  is  an  accompaniment  of  the 
Jesuit  restoration. 

The  cloister  of  the  Carthusians,  behind  this,  was 
designed  by  Michael  Angelo.  In  my  opinion  few  object* 
in  the  world  are  so  grand  and  so  simple ;  simplicity,  espe- 
cially, so  rare  in  Roman  edifices,  produces  a  unique  im- 
pression, and  one  you  do  not  forget.  A  vast  court, 
square  and  solitary,  suddenly  discloses  itself,  framed  in  by 
white  columns  supporting  an  arcade  of  small  arches. 
Overhead  the  pale  red  of  the  tiles  gaily  glows.  There  is 
nothing  more;  on  each  side  for  a  hundred  and  thirty 
paces  the  elegant  curves  of  arches  rise  and  fall 
to  meet  their  slender  shafts,  which  seem  never  to 
be  weary  of  repeating  themselves.  A  fountain  issues 
from  the  centre,  and  flows  between  four  cypresses,  twelve 
feet  in  circumference:  these  rustle  eternally  with  a 
charming  sonorous  murmur,  bringing  to  the  lips  a  line 
of  Theocritus : 

The  babbling  cyprewwi  are  content  with  thy  hymeneal. 

Their  murmur  is  a  genuine  song,  and  beneath  them  as 
gently  as  they  the  water  sings  in  its  basin  of  stone.  One 
never  wearies  in  contemplating  these  grey  old  trunks,  their 
bark  scored  century  after  century  by  the  superabun- 
dant sap,  and  ascending  abruptly  in  clusters  of  branches 
straightened  and  closely  pressed  against  their  sides.  This 
black  pyramid,  of  a  strong  healthy  colour,  stirs  incessantly 
and  rises  aloft  in  the  light,  intersecting  the  clear  azure 
of  the  sky.  The  court,  planted  with  lettuce,  artichokes, 
and  strawberries,  smiles  with  its  early  verdure,  while  at 
long  intervals,  under  the  arcades,  appear  the  long  whit* 
robes  of  Carthusians,  silently  passing. 


254  TILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

In  order  to  complete  our  pleasure  our  good  monk  inn 
sisted  on  showing  us  the  treasures  of  the  convent,  that  is 
to  say,  the  relics  deposited  in  the  chapel.  This  is  a  sort 
of  crypt ;  they  light  little  wax  torches,  and  apply  the 
burning  end  close  to  the  glass  sashes.  At  the  first 
glance  you  would  imagine  yourself  in  a  museum ;  every 
piece  is  labelled,  and  there  are  pieces  of  every  part  of  the 
body.  Some  of  the  skeletons  are  complete,  and  you  s«« 
cartilages,  and  portions  of  the  skin  underneath  the 
bandages.  In  one  sash,  under  the  altar,  is  a  mummy  of 
Saint  Liber ;  in  front  is  an  infant,  found,  with  its  father 
and  mother,  in  the  catacombs.  Nothing  is  lost  in  Rome. 
Here  the  darkest  devotion  of  the  dark  ages  still  exists, 
just  as  it  prevailed  in  the  eleventh  century,  when  King 
Kanute,  on  visiting  Italy,  purchased  the  arm  of  St.  Augus- 
tine for  a  hundred  talents  in  gold.  It  began  with  the 
invasion  of  the  barbarians,  and  lasted  till  the  time  of 
Luther.  From  this  period,  under  Pius  V.,  Paul  IV., 
and  Sixtus  V.,  another  religion,  purified  and  learned,  arose ; 
one  which  through  seminaries,  discipline,  and  restored 
canons,  formed  the  priest  as  we  now  know  him,  such  as 
the  learned  and  noble  Catholicism  of  France  in  the  seven- 
tenth  century  exhibited  him,  that  is  to  say,  regular  in 
conduct,  correct  and  decent  in  deportment,  watched  and 
watching  himself,  a  sort  of  moral  prefect  or  sub-prefect, 
the  functionary  of  a  grand  intellectual  administration 
aiding  laic  governments,  and  maintaining  order  in  minds 
generally.  The  difference  is  enormous  between  the 
belligerent,  epicurean,  and  pagan  popes  of  the  begin- 
ning of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  the  devout,  pious,  and 
ecclesiastical  popes  of  the  end  of  it ;  between  Leo  X.,  a 
bon-vivant,  ardent  huntsman,  and  amateur  of  coarse  farces, 
surrounded  by  buffoons,  and  passionately  fond  of  an  tique 
fables,  and  Sixtus  V.,  once  a  Franciscan  monk,  who  de- 
molished the  Septizonium  of  Septimus  Severus,  who 


SANTA   MARIA  BELLA  VITTORIA.  255 

transported  an  obelisk  to  the  square  of  St.  Peter's  in  order 
to  make  it  Christian,*  and  who  wished  to  purge  Rome  of 
every  trace  of  ancient  paganism. 

We  returned  to  Santa  Maria  della  Vittoria  in  order  to 
see  the  *  St.  Theresa  '  of  Bernini.  She  is  adorable.  In  a 
swoon  of  ecstatic  happiness  lies  the  saint,  with  pendant 
hands,  naked  feet,  and  half-closed  eyes,  fallen  in  transports 
of  blissful  love.  Her  features  are  emaciated,  but  how 
noble  I  This  is  the  true,  high-born  woman,  '  wasted  by 
fire  and  tears,'  awaiting  her  beloved.  Even  to  the  folds 
of  the  drapery,  even  to  the  languor  of  her  drooping  hands, 
even  to  the  sigh  that  dies  on  her  half- closed  lips,  nothing 
is  there  in  or  about  this  form  that  does  not-  express  the 
voluptuous  ardour  and  divine  enthusiasm  of  transport. 
Words  cannot  render  the  sentiment  of  this  affecting  rap- 
turous attitude.  Fallen  backward  in  a  swoon  her  whole 
being  dissolves ;  the  moment  of  agony  has  come,  and  she 
gasps ;  this  is  her  last  sigh,  the  emotion  is  too  power- 
ful. Meanwhile  an  angel  arrives,  a  graceful,  amiable 
young  page  of  fourteen,  in  a  light  tunic  open  in  front 
below  the  breast,  and  as  pretty  a  page  as  could  be  de- 
spatched to  render  an  over-fond  vassal  happy.  A  semi- 
complacent  half-mischievous  smile  dimples  the  fresh  glow- 
ing cheeks ;  the  golden  dart  he  holds  indicates  the  ex- 
quisite, and  at  the  same  time  terrible  shock  he  is  about 
to  inflict  on  the  lovely  impassioned  form  before  him. 
Nobody  has  ever  executed  a  tenderer  and  more  seductive 
romance.  This  Bernini,  who  in  St.  Peter's  seemed  to  me 
BO  ridiculous,  here  conforms  to  the  modern  standard  of 
sculpture,  wholly  based  on  expression ;  and  to  com- 
plete the  effect  he  has  arranged  the  light  in  a  way  to 
throw  over  the  pale  delicate  countenance  an  illumination 
seeming  to  be  that  of  an  inwaid  flame,  as  if,  through 

*  See  the  inscription  in  which  he  boasts  of  his  triumph  over  false  god*. 


856  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

the  transfigured  palpitating  marble,  one  saw  the  spirit  glow- 
ing like  a  lamp,  flooded  with  rapture  and  felicity. 

The  commentary  on  such  a  group  is  to  be  found  in 
contemporary  mystic  treatises,  like  the  famous  *  Guida 
Spiritual!  '  of  Molinos,  a  work  reprinted  twelve  times  in 
twenty  years,  and  which  in  indolent  Rome  circulated 
from  palace  to  palace,  directing  souls  along  the  intricate 
pathways  of  a  new  spirituality  up  to  a  point  of  love 
without  a  lover,  and  then  beyond.*  Whilst  exalted  Spain 
consumed  itself  with  its  Catholicism  like  a  taper  in  its 
own  flame,  and,  through  its  poets  and  painters,  prolonged 
the  feverish  excitement  with  which  St.  Ignatius  and  St. 
Theresa  burned,  sensual  Italy,  stripping  off  the  thorns  of 
devotion,  breathed  it  as  a  full-blown  rose,  and,  in  the 
pretty  saints  of  its  Guido,  in  the  seductive  Magdalens  of  its 
Guercino,  and  in  the  graceful  rotundities  and  glowing  car- 
nality of  the  later  masters,  accommodated  religion  to  the 
voluptuous  softness  characteristic  of  its  sonnets  and  society. 
'  There  are  six  degrees  of  contemplation,'  said  Molinos, 
'  and  these  are:  fire,  unction,  exaltation,  illumination,  taste, 
and  repose.  .  .  .  Unction  is  a  sweet  spiritual  fluid  which, 
in  circulating  through  the  soul,  instructs  and  fortifies  it. 

.  .  .  Taste  is  a  savoury  relish  of  the  divine  presence. 

.  .  .  Repose  is  a  pleasing,  wonderful  state  of  tranquillity 
in  which  so  great  is  the  felicity  and  power  of  peace  that 
the  soul  seems  to  have  sunk  into  a  gentle  sleep,  as  if  she 
were  abandoned  to,  and  rested  on,  the  loving  divine 
boscm.  .'  There  are  many  degrees  of  contemplation 
beside  these,  sush  as  ecstacy,  transports,  melting,  swoon- 
ing, triumph,  kissing,  embraces,  exaltation,  union,  traiu* 
formation,  betrothal,  marriage.f  He  professed  all  thia 

*  See  Articles  41  and  42  in  his  interrogatory:  «In  puch  cases,  and 
others  which  otherwise  would  b«  culpable,  there  is  no  sin,  because  thare  it 

K>  cousent.' 
f  Guida  Spiritual!. 


DEVOTION  AND   LOVE.  261 

and  put  it  into  practice.  In  this  corrupt,  enfeebled 
society,  where  the  mind,  unoccupied  with  serious  things, 
devoted  itself  wholly  to  intrigues  and  ostentation,  the 
passionate  and  imaginative  part  of  it  could  find  no  outlet 
but  in  sentimental  and  gallant  conversation.  From 
terrestrial  love,  when  remorse  came,  they  passed  over  to 
celestial  love,  and,  in  the  natural  course  of  things  with 
such  a  doctrine,  experience  showed  them  that  between 
the  lover  and  the  director  nothing  \vas  changed. 

I  have  lately  read  the  '  Adone '  of  Marini ;  in  this 
poem,  the  most  popular  of  this  age,  one  sees  more  clearly 
than  elsewhere  the  great  transformation  of  sentiments, 
manners,  and  arts  which  already  appeared  in  the  Armida 
and  Aminta  of  Tasso.  What  a  contrast,  on  recurring  to 
the  tragic  Leda  of  Michael  Angelo !  How  graceful  and 
effeminate  everything  has  become  I  How  rapid  the  de- 
scent to  the  level  of  dainty  insipidity !  How  readily  is 
the  standard  of  sigisbes  accepted  !  This  poem  of  twenty 
cantos  seems  to  have  been  composed  expressly  for  some 
fine  youth  to  lisp  in  the  ears  of  an  indolent  lady,  under 
the  colonnade  of  a  marble  villa,  on  warm  summer  evenings, 
with  rustling  jets  of  water  murmuring  around  them,  and 
in  an  atmosphere  of  the  perfume  of  flowers  made  languid 
by  the  heat  of  the  day.  Its  theme  is  love,  and,  for  ten 
thousand  lines,  it  discourses  of  nothing  else.  Magnificent 
gallant  fetes  and  allegorical  gardens,  the  engaging  and 
inexhaustible  story  of  love's  adventures,  blend  together  in 
their  brains  like  the  too  powerful  odours  of  innumerable 
roses  amassed  around  them  in  their  copses  and  bouquets. 
The'heart  is  drowned  in  the  universal  sea  of  voluptuous- 
ness. What  better  can  they  do,  and  what  remains  for 
them  to  do  ?  Virile  energy  has  disappeared ;  under  the 
petty  tyranny  which  interdicts  all  activity  of  mind  and 
body,  man  has  become  effeminate ;  he  no  longer  has  any 
will,  and  only  thinks  of  enjoying  himself.  At  a  woman's 
8 


858  VILLAS,   PALACES,  AND  CHURCHES. 

knees  he  forgets  everything  else;  a  flowing,  trailing 
robe  ia  all  that  his  imagination  requires.  His  reward  is 
the  loss  of  all  manliness  and  nobleness.  Because  love  ie 
his  sole  aspiration,  he  no  longer  knows  how  to  love ;  ho 
is  at  once  whining  and  gross,  incapable  of  anything  but 
licentious  description  or  mawkish  devotion ;  he  is  a  mere 
closet  gallant  and  a  boudoir  domestic.  Degenerate  senti- 
ment is  accompanied  with  degenerate  expression.  He 
gpiiis  out  his  ideas  and  loads  them  with  affectations ;  he 
abounds  in  exaggeration  and  concetti,  and  thus  fashions 
for  himself  a  jargon  with  which  he  prattles.  As  a  climax 
to  all  this  he  is  hypocritical ;  he  places  a  learned  explana- 
tion at  the  head  of  the  most  venturesome  cantos,  in  order 
to  prove  his  indecencies  moral,  and  to  disarm  ecclesiastical 
censure,  of  which  he  stands  in  fear.  Profane  love  or 
eacred  love,  all  falls  to  the  same  level  with  this  century, 
and  in  Bernini,  as  in  Marini,  a  mannered  immodest  grace 
shows  the  debasement  of  man  when  excluded  from  healthy 
activity  and  reduced  to  a  worship  of  the  senses. 

We  finished  the  day  in  the  Quirinal  gardens  arranged 
by  a  pope  of  this  period,  Urban  VIII.  They  are  situated 
on  a  hill  and  descend  in  terraces  to  the  bottom  of  its  de- 
clivity. We  seemed  to  be  promenading  through  one  of 
Perelle's  landscapes ;  tall  hedges,  cypresses  shaped  like 
vases,  and  flower-beds  bordered  with  box,  form  various 
designs,  colonnades,  and  statues.  This  garden  has  the 
cold,  formal,  grave  precision  of  the  century,  such  as  with 
the  establishment  of  stable  monarchies  and  a  decent  ad- 
ministration was  diffused  throughout  the  arts  of  Europe. 
A.t  this  epoch  the  church,  like  royalty,  is  an  uncontested 
power,  and  displays  itself  to  the  eyes  of  its  subjects  in  a 
dignified,  grave,  and  proper  manner. 

But  these  gardens,  thus  understood,  are  much  better 
adapted  to  Italy  than  to  France.  These  sculptured 
hedges  of  laurel  and  of  box  endure  the  winter,  while 


THE  QUIEINAL  GARDENS.  25t 

in  iummer  they  afford  protection  from  the  sun.  The 
ilex  that  never  loses  its  verdure  provides  a  dense  shade 
at  all  times,  and  walls  of  perennial  shrubbery  arrest  the 
winds.  The  fountains  everywhere  constantly  flowing 
attract  the  eye,  and  preserve  the  freshness  of  the  avenues. 
From  the  balustrades  you  have  a  view  of  the  entire  city, 
including  St.  Peter's  and  the  Janiculum,  with  its  waving, 
sinuous  line  in  the  glow  of  the  evening  sky.  For  a  pope 
and  ecclesiastical  dignitaries,  all  aged,  and  who  promenade 
in  their  robes,  these  formal  alleys  and  this  monumental 
decoration  are  most  appropriate.  In  the  spring  it  is 
pleasant  to  pass  an  hour  here  in  the  warm  sunshine, 
under  the  grand  arcade  of  the  crystal  firmament  above 
the  pathways ;  and  then  to  descend  the  broad  steps,  or  the 
gentle  declivities,  to  the  central  basin  in  which  fifty  jets 
of  water  spring  from  its  borders  and  mingle  their  blue 
streams  together.  Near  by  is  a  rotunda  filled  with 
mosaics,  offering  the  shade  and  coolness  of  its  vault. 
These  sounds,  this  agitated  water,  these  statuettes,  this 
grand  horizon  in  front  of  this  summer  saloon,  furnish  so 
many  distractions  to  the  mind,  and  give  the  wearied  spirit 
rest.  One  day  a  group  is  added,  and  on  another  day  a 
clump  of  trees  is  renewed  or  planted;  the  pleasure  of 
building  is  the  only  one  left  to  a  prince,  and  especially  to 
an  aged  one  wearied  and  worn  with  ceremony. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FBOJTKNADES— SANTA    MAKIA    MAGGIORE— SAN     GIOVANNI - 

—  THE   STREETS    OP  ROME  —  SANTA  MARIA    IN  TRASTEVEBE  —  8AK 
CLEMENTE — SAN  FRANCISCO  A  RIPA. 

March  20. — My  friends  urge  me  to  be  more  indifferent, 
to  enjoy  things  as  they  are,  to  care  nothing  about  their 
origin,  and  to  let  history  alone.  To-day,  let  it  be  so  ;  they 
are  right,  but  because  it  is  fine  weather. 

On  such  days  one  strolls  through  the  streets  carelessly, 
and  enjoys  the  lovely  blue  sky  above  him.  There  is  not 
a  cloud  to  be  seen.  The  sun  shines  triumphantly,  and 
the  immaculate  blue  dome,  radiant  with  morning  splendour, 
seems  to  restore  to  the  old  city  its  days  of  pomp  and 
pageantry.  Walls  and  roofs  define  themselves  with  extra* 
ordinary  force  in  the  limpid  atmosphere.  As  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach  the  arcade  of  the  sky  appears  between  the 
two  files  of  houses.  You  advance  indifferently  and  find 
at  every  turn  entirely  new  opera  scenery  : — some  vast 
massive  palace,  propped  up  against  its  rustic  corners ; — a 
street  descending  and  rising  towards  a  distant  obelisk,  and 
which  in  the  broad  sunshine  envelopes  its  personages,  as  a 
picture  would  do,  in  alternate  light  and  shadow ; — some 
old  dismantled  palace  converted  into  a  warehouse,  with 
red  dragons  sleeping  against  a  grey  wall  and  Italian  pines 
and  white  almond  trees  flourishing  on  a  knoll  by  its  side  ; — 
some  square  with  a  large  bubbling  fountain  and  churches 
on  the  left,  florid  and  pretentious  like  wealthy  brides,  smil- 
ing in  the  glittering  azure,  and  with  a  promenade  crossing 


SANTA  MARIA  MAGGIOEE.  261 

it,  the  trees  of  which  are  beginning  to  bloom  ; — beyond 
an  interminable  solitary  street,  extending  between  the 
walls  of  a  convent,  or  those  of  some  invisible  villa ;  on 
the  ridges  pendant  flowers ;  here  and  there  escutcheons, 
cracked  by  invasion.)  of  gilliflowers  and  mosses,  the  whole 
street  partitioned  into  a  black  shadow  and  a  dazzling 
light ;  in  the  distance  the  transparent  atmosphere,  and  the 
monumental  gate  of  the  Porta  Pia,  from  which  you  see 
the  grey  carnpagna,  and  on  the  horizon  the  snow  on  the 
crests  of  the  mountains. 

On  our  return  we  followed  this  street  which  ascends 
and  descends,  bordered  with  palaces  and  old  hedges  of 
thorn,  as  far  as  Santa  Maria  Maggiore.  This  basilica, 
standing  upon  a  large  eminence,  surmounted  with  its 
domes,  rises  nobly  upwards,  at  once  simple  and  complete, 
and  when  you  enter  it,  it  affords  still  greater  pleasure.  It 
belongs  to  the  fifth  century ;  on  being  rebuilt  at  a  later 
period,  the  general  plan,  its  antique  idea,  was  preserved. 
An  ample  nave,  with  a  horizontal  roof,  is  sustained  by 
two  rows  of  white  Ionic  columns.  You  are  rejoiced  to 
see  so  fine  an  effect  obtained  by  such  simple  means ;  you 
might  almost  imagine  yourself  in  a  Greek  temple.  It  ia 
said  that  a  temple  of  Juno  was  robbed  of  these  columns. 
Each  of  them  bare  and  polished,  with  no  other  ornament 
than  the  delicate  curves  of  its  small  capital,  is  of  healthful 
and  charming  beauty.  You  appreciate  here  the  good 
sense,  and  all  that  is  agreeable  in  genuine  natural  con- 
struction, the  file  of  trunks  of  trees  which  bear  the 
beams,  resting  flat  and  providing  a  long  walk.  All  that 
has  since  been  added  is  barbarous,  and  first,  the  two  chapela 
of  Sixtus  V.  and  Paul  V.,  with  their  paintings  by  Guido, 
Josepin,  and  Cigoli,  and  the  sculptures  of  Bernini,  and  the 
architecture  of  Fontana  and  Flaminio.  These  are  cele- 
brated names,  and  money  has  been  prodigally  spent,  but 
instead  of  the  slight  means  with  which  the  ancients  pro- 


262  VILLAS,  PALACES,  AND  CHUKCHES. 

duced  a  great  effect,  the  moderns  produce  a  petty  effect 
with  great  means.  When  the  bewildered  eye  ia  satiated 
with  the  elaborate  sweep  of  these  arches  and  domes,  with 
the  splendours  of  polychromatic  marbles,  with  friezes  and 
pedestals  of  agate,  with  columns  of  oriental  jasper,  with 
angels  hanging  by  their  feet,  and  with  all  these  bas-reliefs 
of  bronze  and  gold,  the  visitor  hastens  to  get  away  from 
it  as  he  would  to  escape  from  a  confectioner's  shop.  It 
Beems  as  if  this  grand  glittering  box,  gilded  and  laboured 
from  pavement  to  lantern,  caught  up  and  tore  at  every 
point  of  its  finery  the  delicate  web  of  poetic  revery  ;  the 
slender  profile  of  the  least  of  the  columns,  impresses  one 
far  more  than  any  of  this  display  of  the  art  of  upholdsterers 
and  parvenus. — Similarly  to  this  the  fa9ade,  loaded  with 
balustrades,  and  round  and  angular  pediments,  and  statues 
roosting  on  its  stones,  is  a  hotel-de-ville  frontage.  The 
campanile,  belonging  to  the  fourteenth  century,  alone 
presents  an  agreeable  object ;  at  that  time  it  was  one  of 
the  towers  of  the  city,  a  distinctive  sign  which  marked  it 
on  the  old  plans  so  black  and  sharp,  and  stamped  it  for  ever 
on  the  still  corporeal  imaginations  of  monks  and  wayfarers. 
There  are  traces  of  every  age  in  these  old  basilicas ;  you 
see  the  diverse  states  of  Christianity,  at  first  enshrined  in 
pagan  forms,  and  then  traversing  the  middle  ages  and  the 
renaissance  to  muffle  itself  up  finally,  and  bedeck  itself 
with  modern  finery.  The  Byzantine  epoch  has  left  its 
imprint  in  the  mosaics  of  the  great  nave  and  the  apsis, 
and  in  its  bloodless  and  lifeless  Christs  and  Virgins,  so 
many  staring  spectres  motionless  on  their  gold  back- 
grounds and  red  panels,  the  phantoms  of  an  extinct  art 
and  a  vanished  society. 

Quite  near  is  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  in  Laterano, 
Btill  more  corrupt.  The  ceiling  remains  horizontal,  but 
the  antique  columns  have  disappeared  to  give  place  to 
arcades  and  pilasters.  Bernini  has  set  up  here  twelve 


BAN  GIOVANNI  IN  LATERANO.  261 

colossal  statues  of  the  apostles,  a  jovial  set  in  white 
marble,  each  in  a  green  marble  niche,  and  capering  in  the 
poses  of  bullies  and  studio  models.  Their  agitated 
drapery  and  affected  gestures  seem  to  appeal  to  the  public, 
as  much  as  to  say,  '  See,  is  not  that  remarkable  ?  '  Here 
is  the  wretched  taste  of  the  seventeenth  century,  neither 
pagan  nor  Christian,  or  rather  both,  the  one  spoiling  the 
other.  Add  to  it  the  gilding  of  the  ceiling,  the  festoons 
and  rosaces  of  the  porch,  and  the  agreeable  chapels ;  one, 
that  of  the  Torlonia,  quite  new,  is  a  charming  marble 
boudoir  in  which  to  enjoy  a  cool  atmosphere ;  white  and 
embroidered  with  gold,  it  has  a  pretty  panelled  cupola, 
and  is  decked  with  elegant  statues,  very  clean,  very 
sentimental,  very  insipid,  very  much  like  fashionable 
dolls.  Close  by  its  side  opens  the  chapel  of  Clement  XII., 
ampler  and  more  sumptuous;  here,  at  least,  the  faces  of 
the  women  have  some  intellectual  traits,  some  reflection, 
some  finesse ;  they  are  ladies  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
familiar  with  society,  capable  of  maintaining  their  rank, 
and  not  the  respectable  would-be-interesting  types  of  the 
*  keepsake '  class.  But  the  two  chapels  are  merely 
parlours,  one  for  furbelows  and  the  other  for  crinoline. 
By  way  of  contrast,  and  as  complements  to  these,  we 
were  shown  the  grand  altar  in  which  the  heads  of 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul  are  enshrined.  '  On  this  very 
altar,'  said  a  young  priest  to  us,  '  St.  Peter  said  mass.'  A 
little  before  this,  on  passing,  I  entered  the  church  of 
Santa  Pudentiana,  and  saw  the  margin  of  a  well  in  which 
th«  saint  had  collected  the  blood  of  more  than  three 
thousand  martyrs. 

Near  St.  John  Lateran  is  a  chapel  containing  three 
staircases.  One  of  them  came  from  the  house  of  Pontiug 
Pilate ;  it  is  covered  with  wood,  and  the  devout  ascend 
it  on  their  knees.  I  have  just  seen  these  people  stumbling, 
staggering,  and  clambering  up  j  it  takes  half  an  hour  thus 


264  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

to  hoist  themselves  to  the  top,  clinging  to  its  steps  and 
walls  with  their  hands  the  better  to  become  impregnated 
with  the  sanctity  of  the  place.  It  is  worth  while  to  see 
their  earnestness,  their  large  fixed  eyes.  One  peasant 
especially,  in  a  vest,  ragged  blue  trowsers  and  hob- 
nailed shoes,  as  rude  and  clumsy  as  any  of  his  beasts, 
made  the  boards  ring  in  knocking  his  knees  against  them, 
and  where  the  marble  was  visible,  he  kissed  and  rekissed 
the  place.  At  the  top  is  an  image  under  a  grating  between 
tapers,  which  grating  is  kissed  incessantly.  A  placard 
affixed  to  it  displays  a  prayer  of  about  twenty  words; 
whoever  recites  this  obtains  an  indulgence  of  a  hundred 
days.  The  placard  recommends  the  faithful  to  commit  the 
prayer  to  memory  in  order  to  recite  it  as  often  as  possi- 
ble, and  thus  augment  their  stock  of  indulgences.  One 
would  imagine  himself  in  a  Buddhist  country ;  there  is 
gilding  for  the  better  and  relics  for  the  poorer  classes — 
such  is  the  comprehension  of  worship  in  Italy  for  the  last 
two  hundred  years. 

All  these  ideas  vanish,  when  from  the  entrance  you  con- 
template the  majestic  amplitude  of  the  great  nave,  quite 
white  beneath  the  gold  of  its  arch.  The  sun,  as  it  declines, 
streams  through  the  windows  and  pours  upon  the  pave- 
ment a  cataract  of  light.  The  apsis,  furrowed  with  ancient 
mosaics,  mingles  its  curves  of  purple  and  gold  with  the 
dazzling  splendours  of  rays  launched  forth  like  flaming 
darts.  You  advance  and  suddenly  from  the  peristyle 
the  admirable  piazza  spreads  out  before  you.  Nothing  in 
Rome  is  equal  to  it;  you  could  not  imagine  a  simpler 
spectacle,  one  more  grave  and  beautiful :  at  first,  the 
eloping  square  vast  and  deserted ;  beyond,  an  esplanade 
with  its  growing  grass,  then,  along  green  avenue  with 
files  of  leafless  trees  stretching  away  in  the  distance,  and 
Rt  the  extremity,  relieving  on  the  f>ky,  the  great  basilica 
of  Santa  Croce  with  its  tile  roof  and  brown  camjwmta 


SCENERY.  9U 

No  idea  can  be  formed  of  an  expanse  so  broad,  so  full  of 
interest,  of  a  solitude  so  calm  and  so  noble.  The  land- 
scapes that  frame  it  in  on  either  side  ennoble  it  still  more : 
on  the  left,  red  masses  of  ruined  arcades,  and  dismantled 
groves,  form  the  shattered  enclosure  of  the  ancient 
wall  of  Belisarius ;  on  the  right,  the  wide  campagna  de- 
velopes  itself,  with  an  open  arcade  in  its  midst,  and  in 
the  distance,  the  blue  striated  mountains  mottled  with 
broad  shadows  and  spotted  with  villages.  The  luminou 
atmosphere  envelopes  all  these  grand  forms ;  the  blue  01 
the  sky  is  of  a  divine  softness  and  brilliancy,  the  clouds 
float  peacefully  like  swans,  and  on  all  sides,  between 
ruddy  bricks  and  disjointed  embrasures,  in  the  midst  of 
a  network  of  cultivation,  you  see  clusters  of  tall  green 
oaks,  cypresses,  and  pines  illuminated  by  the  declining 
sun. 

I  remained  an  hour  on  the  steps  of  the  triclinium,  a 
kind  of  isolated  apsis  bordering  the  square ;  growing  vege- 
tation is  undermining  the  steps,  and  lizards  issue  from  holes 
and  bask  in  the  sunshine  on  the  marble.  All  is  silent  • 
now  and  then  a  cart  and  a  few  asses  traverse  the  deserted 
pavement.  If  there  is  a  spot  in  the  world  calculated  to 
calm  weary  spirits,  and  soothe  them,  and  insensibly  lull 
them  into  forgetfulness  with  noble  and  melancholy  dreams, 
it  is  here.  The  spring  has  come :  the  mild  light  of  a  ver- 
nal sunshine  rests  on  the  stone  slabs ;  the  sun  beams  with 
indescribable  grace,  imparting  to  the  balmy  atmosphere 
ite  genial  beneficence.  Blossoms  are  bursting  their  enve- 
lopes, and  these  grand  stone  structures  consigned  to  a 
neglected  corner  of  Rome,  seem,  like  exiles,  to  have  ac- 
quired in  solitude  a  harmonious  serenity  that  attenuates 
their  defects  and  augments  their  dignity.  At  the  first 
glance  the  facade  dissatisfies  ;  its  arcades,  divided  in  the 
middle  like  high  rooms  to  form  a  second  story,  its  stacks 
f  columns,  its  balustrades  burdened  with  saints  in  com* 


266  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

motion  and  parading  themselves  like  actors  at  a  finale,— 
its  entire  decoration  seems  an  exaggeration.  An  hour  aftei 
and  the  eye  becomes  accustomed  to  it ;  you  yield  gradually 
to  the  impressions  of  prosperity  and  beauty  which  all 
things  reveal;  you  find  the  church  solid  and  rich,  you 
imagine  the  Pontifical  processions  that  on  appointed  days 
have  passed  under  its  roof,  and  you  liken  it  to  some  trium- 
phal arch  erected  to  give  a  fitting  reception  to  the  spiri- 
tual Caesar  the  successor  of  the  Caesars  of  Rome. 

The  streets.  San  Andrea  della  Valle,  Santa  Maria  in 
Trastevere.  Rome  has  three  hundred  and  forty  churches, 
you  do  not  require  me  to  visit  alL 

What  is  better,  I  think,  is  to  enter  a  church  whenever 
you  find  one  accidentally,  just  as  the  fancy  takes  you ; 
Santa  Maria  sopra  Minerva,  for  instance :  to  hear  the 
music  rolling  through  its  solitary  nave,  and  to  see  a  flood 
of  light  streaming  in  through  the  violet  window-panes  ; — 
Santa  Trinita  del  Monte,  to  see  the  '  Descent  from  the 
Cross,'  by  Daniele  da  Volterra,  so  dilapidated ;  and  espe- 
cially to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  courts  of  this  nunnery, 
so  like  a  strong  walled  fortress,  and  so  silent  above  the 
tumult  of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. — You  go  out  with  a  quan- 
tity of  half-ideas,  or  beginnings  of  ideas,  in  your  mind, 
confused  together  and  entangled,  but  secretly  developing 
themselves ;  this  busy  swarm  labours  within  like  a  batch 
of  weaving  silkworms,  the  web  meanwhile  growing  con- 
stantly, until  finally  it  ends  unawares,  and  receives  into  ita 
meshes  all  current  events  and  casual  encounters,  a  detail 
that  at  first  passed  unnoticed,  but  which  now  has  got  to 
be  of  interest.  From  this  time  these  objects  all  harmo- 
nise, fitting  in  one  with  the  other  and  forming  a  complete 
whole ;  there  is  nothing  that  does  not  find  a  place,  for  ex- 
ample, to-day  under  this  band  of  azure  and  soft  silky  light 
stretched  like  a  dais  above  the  streets,  the  venerable  grey 
•tains  of  mud  spotting  the  fronts  of  the  houses ;  these  worn 


THE  STREETS  OP  BOMB.  26T 

rounded  corners,  these  rusty  bars  in  which  generations  of 
epiders  have  inherited  ancestral  cobwebs ;  these  dark  cor« 
ridorp,  their  dust  disturbed  by  the  wind;  these  door- 
knockers with  their  paint  scaled  off  and  the  iron  plate  that 
received  their  blows  worn  through  in  the  service ;  these 
frying  pans  fretting  with  black  grease  at  the  foot  of  a 
leprous  column  ;  these  donkey  drivers  entering  the  Bar- 
berini  square  with  their  animals  loaded  with  wood,  and 
especially  the  campagnards  dressed  in  blue  wool,  clumsy 
shoes,  and  leather  leggings,  silently  grouped  together  in 
front  of  the  Pantheon  like  wild  animals  half  frightened  at 
the  novelty  of  the  city  around  them.  They  do  not  look 
Btupid,  these  people,  like  our  peasants;  they  rather  resem- 
ble wolves  and  badgers  imprisoned  in  traps.  Many  of 
the  heads  among  them  have  regular,  strong  features, 
affording  a  striking  contrast  with  those  of  the  French 
Boldiers,  who  have  a  more  pleasing  and  a  gentler  aspect. 
One  of  these  peasants  with  long  black  hair,  and  pale  dig- 
nified face  resembles  the  '  Suonatore,'  of  Raphael ;  his 
sandals  attached  to  his  feet  by  leather  thongs  are  the 
same  as  those  of  antique  statues.  His  old  grey  shapeless 
hat  is  decorated  with  a  peacock's  feather,  and  he  sits  en- 
camped like  an  emperor  against  a  post  that  supports  a 
receptacle  for  street  ordure.  Among  the  women,  ogling 
and  displaying  themselves  at  their  windows,  you  distin- 
guish two  types :  one  the  energetic  head  with  square 
chin  and  face  resting  firmly  on  its  base,  intense  black 
eyes,  prominent  nose,  jutting  forehead,  short  neck  and 
broad  shoulders ;  and  the  other  the  cameo  head,  deli- 
cate and  amorous,  with  well-shaped,  well-drawn  eyes 
and  brow,  the  features  spiritudle  and  clearly  defined,  and 
inclining  to  an  expression  of  affection  and  gentleness. 

The  lottery  offices  are  full,  and  you  read  the  numbers 
posted  up  in  the  windows.  This  is  what  most  absorbs 
the  attention  of  these  people.  They  are  always  calcula- 


268  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND   CHURCHES. 

ting  and  pondering  over  winning  numbers,  and  speculating 
on  chances  based  on  age  and  day  of  the  month,  on  the 
forms  of  numerals,  on  presentiments,  on  neuvaines  of  tha 
saints  and  the  Madonna  ;  the  imaginative  brain  is  always 
at  work,  building  up  dream  upon  dream,  and  suddenly 
overflowing  on  the  side  of  either  fear  or  hope ;  they  fall 
on  their  knees,  and  this  spasm  of  desire  or  fear  constitutes 
their  religion. 

This  mode  of  feeling  is  of  ancient  date.  We  had  just 
entered  San  Andrea  della  Valle  in  order  to  see  the  works 
of  Lanfranco,  and  especially  the  four  evangelists  by 
Domenichino.  They  are  very  fine  things  but  wholly 
pagan,  and  appeal  only  to  a  love  of  the  picturesque.  St. 
Andrea  is  an  ancient  Hercules.  Around  the  evangelists 
are  grouped  a  number  of  superb  allegorical  figures  of 
women,  one  with  bare  limbs  and  breast  raising  her  arms 
to  heaven,  and  another  with  a  casque  bending  forward 
with  an  air  of  the  proudest  arrogance.  By  the  side  of  St. 
Mark  frolicsome  children  play  with  an  enormous  lion,  and 
from  below,  among  the  grand  folds  of  raised  drapery,  you 
see  amidst  foreshortenings  the  naked  thighs  of  angels.  The 
spectator  could  have  certainly  sought  for  nothing  there 
but  vigorous,  active,  and  powerful  bodies  capable  of 
exciting  the  sympathy  of  a  gesticulating  athlete.  He 
was  not  offended ;  on  the  contrary,  his  saint  was  repre- 
sented as  strong  and  as  proud  as  possible,  just  as  he  him- 
self figured  him.  If  you  had  a  prince  beyond  the  seas, 
whom  you  had  never  seen,  but  who  through  some  marvel- 
lous agency  could  either  kill  or  enrich  you  as  he  pleased, 
these  are  the  traits  in  which  your  imagination  would 
figure  him. 

I  have  not  much  to  tell  you  of  Santa  Maria  in  Tras- 
tevere,  nor  of  other  churches ;  I  could  do  no  more  than 
repeat  impressions  already  recorded.  A  double  row  of 
columns  taken  from  an  antique  temple,  a  ceiling  over* 


SANTA  MARIA  IN  TRASTEVEBE.  269 

Charged  with  gold  bosses  and  mouldings,  an  '  Assump- 
tion '  by  Guido  placed  too  high,  a  round  apsis  with  rigid 
old  figures  relieving  on  a  gold  background,  statues  oi 
the  dead  solemnly  reposing  on  their  tombs  in  eternal 
sleep,  this  is  Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere.  —  Every 
church  however,  possesses  distinct  character  or  some 
Bti  iking  detail.  In  San  Pietro  in  Montorio,  there  is  a 
'  Scourging,'  by  Sebastian  del  Penubo.  The  sculptural 
attitude,  the  vigorous  forms,  the  strained  and  contorted 
muscles,  of  the  patient  and  his  executioners,  call  to  mind 
Michael  Angelo,  who  was  the  artist's  counsellor  and  often- 
times his  master. — In  San  Clemente,  a  buried  church  re- 
cently disinterred,  and  among  columns  of  verd  antique, 
you  see  paintings,  by  the  light  of  a  torch,  that  pass  for 
the  most  ancient  in  Rome,  hard,  pitiful  Byzantine  figures, 
and  among  them  a  Virgin  whose  breast  falls  like  the  milk 
bag  of  an  animal. — In  San  Francesco  a  Ripa,  is  a  decora- 
tion of  gilding  and  marble,  the  richest  and  most  extrava- 
gant possible,  constructed  in  the  last  century  by  corpora- 
tions of  cobblers,  fruiterers,  and  millers,  each  division 
bearing  the  name  of  that  which  furnished  the  means. 
There  is  thus  in  almost  every  street  some  curious  his- 
torical fragment.  What  is  no  less  striking  is  the  contrast 
between  a  church  itself  and  its  vicinity.  On  leaving 
San  Francesco  a  Ripa  you  stop  your  nose,  so  strong 
is  the  odour  of  codfish ;  the  yellow  Tiber  rolls  along, 
between  remnants  of  piles  near  large  mournful  edifices 
and  before  silent  lugubrious  streets.  On  returning  from 
San  Pietro  in  Montorio  I  found  an  indescribable  quarter : 
horrible  streets  and  filthy  lanes ;  steep  ascents  bordered  with 
hovels,  and  slimy  corridors  crowded  with  crawling  human 
beings ;  old  women,  yellow  and  leaden  visaged,  sternly  re- 
garding you  with  their  witch  eyes;  children  huddled 
together  in  full  security  like  dogs,  and  shamelessly  imita- 
ting them  on  the  pavement ;  ragged  vagabonds  in  red 


1TO  VILLAS,   PALACES,   AND  CHURCHES. 

tatters,  smoking  and  leaning  against  the  walls,  and  a  dirty 
swarming  crowd  hurrying  on  to  the  cook-shops.  From 
top  to  bottom  of  this  street  the  gutters  stream  with 
kitchen  refuse,  dyeing  the  sharp  stones  with  its  foul 
blackoess.  At  the  foot  of  the  street  is  the  Ponte  San 
Sisto ;  there  are  no  quays  on  the  Tiber,  and  these  swel- 
tering sinks  dip  their  surcharged  steps  into  it  like  so 
many  dripping  towels  washed  in  mire.  Gilding  and 
hovels,  morals  and  physiognomies,  government  and  faith, 
present  and  past,  all  amalgamate,  and  a  moment's  thought 
suffices  to  show  their  mutual  dependence. 


BOOK  Y. 

SOCIETY. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE  Mn«&lJE  CLASSES — MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS — LOYE. 

I  HATE  recorded  for  you  about  all  that  I  could  myself 
observe,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  external  world ;  as  to  the 
internal  world,  meaning  by  this,  manners,  morals,  and 
character,  you  know  that  at  the  end  of  a  month  I  could 
not  say  much  on  my  own  responsibility ;  but  I  am  favoured 
with  friends  of  various  classes  and  opinions,  all  of  whom 
are  obliging  and  many  of  excellent  judgment.  I  shall 
give  you  a  summary  of  fifty  or  sixty  conversations  and 
searching  discussions,  without  reservation. 

In  this  city  overflowing  with  works  of  art,  there  are 
very  few  artists.  Thirty  years  ago  there  was  Signer 
Camuccini,  and  a  few  cold  imitators  of  David ;  now  the  [ 
standard  is  one  of  graceful  insipidity ;  the  sculptors  polish ' 
marble  perfectly  in  order  to  please  the  wealthy  of  other 
lands :  that  is  their  forte,  and  they  go  but  little  beyond 
it ;  most  of  them  are  purely  mechanical  copyists.  The 
public  in  general  has  fallen  quite  as  low ;  the  Romans 
appreciate  their  masterpieces  only  through  the  admiration 
of  strangers.  And  because  a  true  culture  is  prohibited 
to  them.  It  is  impossible  to  travel  without  the  Pope'a 
passport,  and  the  passport  is  often  refused,  A  certain 


272  SOCIETY. 

Italian  artist  could  not  obtain  one  to  visit  Paris.  '  Go, 
if  you  please,'  was  the  reply ;  '  but  if  you  do  you  cannot 
return.'  Fears  are  entertained  of  their  bringing  back 
liberal  maxims. 

According  to  the  report  of  strangers,  physicians  pre- 
scribe nothing  but  enemas,  and  the  lawyers  are  professors 
of  chicanery.  Everybody  is  restricted  to  his  speciality. 
The  police,  who  let  people  do  as  they  please,  allow  no 
one  to  concern  himself  with  the  sciences  trenching  on 
religion  or  politics.  A  man  who  studies  or  reads  much, 
even  in  his  own  house,  and  with  closed  doors,  is  watched ; 
he  is  annoyed  constantly,  and  exposed  to  domiciliary 
visits  in  search  of  forbidden  books,  and  accused  of  pos- 
sessing obscene  engravings.  He  is  subject  to  the  precetto, 
that  is  to  say,  to  the  obligation  of  returning  to  his  home 
by  the  Ave  Maria,  and  of  not  leaving  it  after  sunset. 
Once  failing  to  do  so,  and  he  is  imprisoned;  a  foreign 
diplomate  mentioned  to  me  one  of  his  friends  to  whom 
this  happened. — They  speak  at  Rome  of  a  mathematician 
and  one  or  two  antiquarians  ;  but  in  general,  the  savants 
here  are  either  annoyed  or  despised.  If  anybody  possesses 
erudite  tastes,  he  conceals  them,  or  apologises  for  them, 
always  alluding  to  them  as  mania.  Ignorance  is  welcome, 
for  it  renders  people  docile. 

As  to  the  professors,  the  best,  those  of  the  university, 
receive  three  or  four  hundred  crowns  a  year,  and  give 
five  lectures  per  week,  which  shows  the  high  estimation 
in  which  science  is  held.  In  order  to  exist  some  resort 
to  medical  practice,  others  become  architects,  others 
clerks,  and  others  librarians  ;  several  who  are  priests,  are 
paid  for  masses,  and  all  live  with  the  utmost  plainness.  I 
counted  on  the  almanack  forty-seven  professorships 
there  are  five  hundred  pupils  in  the  university,  about 
ten  to  each  chair.  The  Pope  has  just  authorised  a  course 
on  geology,  which  has  an  audience  of  four,  no  more  aw 


THE  MIDDLE  CLASSES.  273 

in  attendance  on  the  course  on  profane  history.  Ab  an 
offset  to  this  the  courses  on  theology  are  quite  numerous. 
This  shows  the  spirit  of  the  institution  ;  the  sciences  of 
the  middle  ages  flourish  here,  while  modern  sciences 
remain  outside  the  door.  There  are  but  two  public 
schools  in  Rome,  the  Human  Seminary,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  cardinal-vicar,  for  the  formation  of  priests,  and 
the  Roman  College,  in  the  hands  of  the  Jesuits,  in  which 
Latin  and  Greek  are  studied;  no  Italian  nor  French,  nor 
any  other  living  language,  and  no  history  excepting 
Roman  history,  back  to  the  time  of  Constantino.  So  in- 
significant are  the  studies,  that  when  a  pupil  wishes  to 
enter  the  congregation,  he  is  obliged,  even  if  the  most 
advanced,  to  recommence  his  studies  from  the  first  prin- 
ciples. In  the  medical  school  there  is  no  clinique  on 
midwifery  ;  instruction  in  this  branch  is  derived  from  pic- 
tures representing  the  organs,  which  pictures  are  covered 
with  curtains ;  a  notorious  ignoramus  has  just  been  in- 
stalled professor  here  through  female  intrigue.  The  rest 
is  in  keeping.  The  professors,  said  a  genuine  physician 
to  me,  are  mere  village  barbers ;  a  few  only  have  passed 
one  or  two  weeks  at  Paris,  and  practise  a  treatment  in  the 
hospitals  a  century  behind  the  age.  In  the  asylum  for 
cutaneous  diseases,  the  patients  are  subjected  to  incisions 
in  the  head;  when  the  wound  is  cicatrised  they  are 
arranged  in  rows,  and  a  brush  soaked  in  a  certain  mixture 
6  passed  over  their  heads,  the  same  brush  answering  for 
all,  and  perhaps  so  employed  for  years.  You  may  judge 
by  the.  foregoing  of  the  dignity  and  importance  of  the 
liberal  professions. 

Is  there  in  Rome  any  degree  of  moral  energy  ?  Most 
of  my  friends  reply,  no;  the  government  has  demoralised 
men.  People  are  extraordinarily  intelligent,  adroit,  and 
calculating,  but  no  less  egotistical ;  not  one,  or  scarcely 
one,  would  risk  his  life  or  his  fortune  for  his  country. 

T 


74  SOCIETY. 

They  declaim,  and  are  willing  to  have  others  take  the 
lead,  but  will  not  subject  themselves  to  the  smallest  sacri- 
fice. They  regard  one  who  thus  devotes  himself  as  a 
dupe ;  they  smile  ironically  on  seeing  the  excitement  of  a 
Frenchman  who,  to  the  cry  of  country  or  glory,  rushes 
off  to  get  his  bones  broken. 

They  do  not  surrender  themselves,  but  accommodate 
themselves  to  you;  they  are  infinitely  polite  and  patiect, 
never  even  faintly  smiling  at  the  barbarisms  and  gro- 
tesque errors  of  pronunciation  which  a  stranger  always 
commits.  They  remain  their  own  masters,  unwilling  to 
compromise  themselves,  and  are  only  concerned  in  keeping 
out  of  scrapes,  in  turning  others  to  account,  and  in  duping 
each  other.  Delicacy,  as  we  understand  it,  is  unknown 
to  them ;  an  antiquary  of  reputation  readily  accepts  com- 
missions  from  merchants  on  all  objects  the  sale  of  which 
he  procures ;  and  there  are  a  number  of  usurers  among 
the  wealthy  and  the  great. 

Everybody  here  has  a  protector;  it  is  impossible  to 
live  without  one.  You  must  have  one  to  obtain  the  most 
trifling  thing,  to  obtain  justice,  to  receive  your  income, 
to  preserve  your  property.  Everything  goes  by  favour. 
Keep  a  pretty,  complacent  woman  in  your  employ,  or  in 
/our  family,  and  you  will  come  out  of  all  difficulties  as 
pure  as  snow.  One  of  my  friends  compares  this  country 
to  the  Orient,  where  he  has  travelled,  with  this  difference, 
that  it  is  not  force  here,  but  address  which  succeeds,  the 
clever  protected  man  obtaining  all.  Life  is  a  league  and 
a  combat,  but  subterranean.  Under  a  government  of 
priests  there  is  a  horror  of  making  a  display  ;  there  is  no 
hi  utal  energy :  one  mines  and  countermines  as  skilfully 
AS  he  can,  and  lays  traps  ten  years  in  advance. 

As  enterprise  and  action  are  prejudicial  and  regarded 
unfavourably,  indolence  becomes  honourable.  Innumer- 
able people  live  in  Rome  nobody  knows  how,  without 


MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS.  275 

either  occupation  or  revenue.  Some  earn  ten  crowns  a 
inoa&  and  expend  thirty ;  apart  from  any  visible  pursuit 
they  &ave  all  sorts  of  resources  and  expedients.  In  the 
first  p\aoe  the  government  expends  two  or  three  hundred 
thousand  .crowns  in  alms,  and  every  noble  or  prince 
deems  cfc*uity  a  duty  on  account  of  his  rank,  and  tradi- 
tionally. Guch  a  one  gives  away  six  thousand  crowns  a 
year.  Agvin  there  are  buona  mancia  everywhere ;  cer- 
tain people  yresent  fifteen  petitions  a  day,  one  or  two  of 
which  are  feuccessful ;  the  petitioner  eats  a  good  dinner 
in  the  evening,  and  thus  always  has  an  occupation. 
Thifl  occupation  has  its  instruments;  you  see  public 
Bcriveners  in  the  open  air,  with  hats  on  their  heads,  and 
umbrellas  by  their  sides,  engaged  in  writing  these  petitions 
and  holding  their  papers  fast  with  stones.  Finally,  in 
this  state  of  universal  misery  all  help  each  other ;  a  beggar 
is  not  an  outcast,  nor  a  criminal ;  he  is  honest,  as  honest 
as  anybody,  only  he  happens  to  have  been  unfortunate  ; 
with  this  reflection,  the  poorest  bestow  on  him  a  few 
baiocchi.  Thus  is  sloth  maintained.  Among  the  moun- 
tains, near  Frascati,  I  found  at  every  pasturage  a  man 
or  child  ready  to  open  a  gate  ;  at  the  church  doors  some 
poor  mortal  is  always  there  to  lift  up  for  you  the  leather 
curtain  suspended  before  the  door.  In  this  way  they 
obtain  five  or  six  cents  a  day,  and  on  this  they  live. 

I  know  a  custode  who  gets  six  crowns  a  month ;  besides 
which  he  occasionally  repairs  an  old  coat,  and  receives  for 
this  three  or  four  baiocchi  more  ;  his  family  is  half  starving, 
and  he  is  sometimes  obliged  to  borrow  a  couple  of  pauls 
(twenty  cents)  of  a  neighbour  in  order  to  live  the  week 
out.  And  yet  his  son  and  daughter  take  their  promenade 
every  Sunday  in  very  good  clothes.  The  girl  is  honest 
because  she  is  not  yet  married;  once  the  husband  is 
caught  it  will  be  another  matter;  she  must  naturally 
provide  for  her  toilette  and  aid  her  husband.  Countleef 
T  2 


976  SOCIETY. 

households  are  thus  maintained  on  the  beauty  of  the  wife 
The  husband  shuts  his  eyes  and  sometimes  opens  them, 
but  in  the  latter  case,  simply  the  better  to  fill  his  pockets. 
Shame  does  not  incommode  him ;  the  people  of  the  mezzo 
oeto  are  so  poor,  that  when  children  come,  a  man  is  to  be 
pitied,  and  he  suffers  so  much  unless  fortified  by  a  rich 
protector.     '  My  wife  wants  dresses ;  let  her  earn  them  !' 
Besides  this  the  general  influence  of  the  government  is 
debasing ;  man  is  forced  into  indignities;  he  is  accustomed 
to  crouching,  to  kissing  the  hands  of  ecclesiastics,  to  self- 
humiliation  ;  from  generation  to  generation  self-respect, 
resistance,  and  manliness,have  been  extirpated  as  noxious 
weeds ;  the  possessor  of  such  qualities  is  trodden  down, 
and  their  seed  is  at  length  lost.    A  type  of  such  charac- 
ters is  the  cassandrino  of  the  ancient  marionnettes ;  he  is 
a  crushed-out  layman  whose  interior  springs  of  action 
are  broken,  who  jests  at  everything,  even  at  himself,  and 
who,  stopped  by  brigands,  lets  them  despoil  him,  and 
facetiously  addresses  them  as  *  huntsmen.'     This  bitter 
humour   and   voluntary  harlequinism   aid   in   rendering 
him  insensible  to  the  ills  of  life.     This  character  is  quite 
common;  the  husband,  resigned  and   dishonoured,  con- 
tentedly yields  to  his  wife's  good  fortune.     With  his  mind 
at  ease  he  takes  his  promenade,  sips  his  coffee  at  three 
cents  a  cup,  speculates  on  the  weather,  and  enjoys  the 
display  of  a  new  coat  on  the  public  thoroughfares.     The 
Romans,  both  male  and  female,  put  on  thtir  backs  all  th& 
money  they  earn,  and  all  that  is  given  to  them.     Their 
food  is  poor  in  quantity  and  in  quality,  consisting  of 
crusts,  cheese,  cabbage,  and  salads.     They  have  no  fcre 
in  winter,  and  their  furniture  is  miserable,  everything 
being  sacrificed  to   appearances.     The   streets  and  the 
Pincio  swarm  with  women  in  handsome  velvet  mantillas, 
and  young  people  well  gloved  and  frizzled,  bright,  showy, 
ftnd  spruce  outside — but  do  not  look  beyond. 


MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS.  277 

Alongside  of  indolence  ignorance  flourishes  like  thisllea 
by  the  side  of  nettles.  One  of  our  friends  has  resided 
some  time  in  the  environs  of  Lake  Nemi ;  it  was  impossi- 
ble, after  noon,  to  obtain  a  letter,  because  the  doctor,  cure, 
and  apothecary  chose  that  hour  for  their  promenades, 
and  no  one  in  the  village  but  them  knew  how  to  read 
It  is  about  the  same  thing  at  Home.  I  am  told  of  a 
noble  family  who  live  in  two  and  let  five  rooms ;  from 
this  they  derive  their  income.  Out  of  four  daughters 
one  only  is  able  to  write  a  note,  and  she  is  callea  the 
learned  (la  dotta).  The  father  and  son  frequent  a  cafe, 
drink  a  glass  of  pure  water,  and  read  a  newspaper : — such 
is  their  life.  The  young  man  has  no  future ;  fortunate  is 
he  if  he  can  obtain  a  place  in  the  datarie,  or  elsewhere, 
at  six  crowns  a  month.  There  is  no  commerce,  no  man- 
ufactures, no  army.  A  good  many  become  priests  and 
monks  and  support  themselves  on  their  masses ;  they 
dare  not  seek  their  fortunes  outside  their  country,  the 
police  closing  and  locking  the  door  on  all  who  go  out. 

Houses,  accordingly,  are  mere  kennels.  The  young 
ladies  hi  question  remain  in  slatternly  morning-gowns, 
bundled  up  like  kitchen  drudges,  until  four  in  the  after- 
noon. I  knew  of  one  domestic  establishment  where,  for  a 
long  time,  I  supposed  the  ladies  to  be  women  employed 
to  darn  stockings ;  I  found  them  engaged  in  clean- 
ing boots.  Confusion,  foul  linen  and  broken  crockery 
strewed  about  on  the  tables  and  on  the  floor  was  all ; 
a  lot  of  children  ate  in  the  kitchen.  One  Sunday  I 
noticed  them  out  of  doors  in  their  hats  and  appearing 
like  ladies,  and  I  learn  that  their  brother  is  a  lawyer; 
this  brother  makes  his  appearance  and  he  is  dressed 
like  a  gentleman. 

I  inquire  how  these  young  people  pass  their  time,  and 
the  reply  is — doing  nothing ;  the  great  aim  in  this  country 
is  to  do  as  little  as  possible.  A  young  Koman  may  be 
compared  to  a  man  enjoying  his  siesta ;  he  is  inert,  dis- 


278  SOCIETY. 

likes  effort,  and  would  be  angry  if  disturbed  or  forced  U 
undertake  anything.  When  he  leaves  his  office  he  puts 
on  his  best  clothes  and  posts  himself  beneath  a  certain 
window,  which  he  does  every  afternoon.  From  time  to 
time  the  wife  or  young  girl  raises  a  corner  of  the  curtain, 
so  as  to  show  him  that  she  knows  he  is  there.  This 
occupies  the  thoughts  of  all,  which  is  not  surprising  as  the 
siesta  predisposes  towards  love.  Men  promenade  the 
Corso  constantly;  they  follow  women  and  know  their 
names  and  diminutives,  their  lovers  and  the  past  and 
present  of  all  their  intrigues,  and  thus  live,  their  heads 
filled  with  gossip.  Accordingly,  thus  occupied,  their 
minds  become  acute  and  penetrating.  Amongst  themselves 
they  are  polite,  affable,  and  complimentary,  but  always  on 
their  guard,  dissembling,  and  engaged  in  supplanting  each 
other  and  playing  each  other  tricks. 

In  the  middle  class  there  are  evening  parties  but  of  a 
singular  character.  Lovers  watch  one  another  from  one 
end  of  the  room  to  the  other ;  it  is  impossible  to  hold  a 
conversation  with  a  young  lady,  her  lover  having  forbid- 
den it.  Their  beverage  is  water  without  sugar.  Every- 
body is  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  or  observing  his 
neighbour's  movements.  Occasionally,  they  emerge  from 
this  meditative  mood  in  order  to  listen  to  a  little  music. 
Amongst  the  inferior  portion  of  this  class  nothing  is 
served,  not  even  a  glass  of  water.  There  is  a  piano  and, 
generally,  some  one  sings.  There  is  no  fire  in  winter ; 
the  ladies  form  a  circle  and  retain  their  muffs;  those 
highest  in  favour  are  honoured  with  hand-warmers.  This 
suffices — people  are  not  very  hard  to  please. 

Young  ladies  are  kept  shut  up,  and,  consequently, 
are  always  trying  to  get  out.  Lately,  as  the  story- 
goes,  one  of  them  succeeded  in  escaping  in  the  evening  to 
a  rendezvous  and  she  caught  cold  and  died ;  her  young 
friends  made  a  sort  of  demonstration  and  thronged  to  kis§ 


MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS—LOVE.  271 

the  body ;  they  regarded  her  as  a  martyr,  dead  in  behalf 
of  the  ideal  Their  life  consists  in  quietly  boasting  of 
their  lovers,  that  is  to  say,  of  some  young  man  who  is 
thinking  about  them,  who  courts  them,  who  stations  him- 
self under  their  window,  and  so  on.  This  tickles  their 
imagination  and  supplies  the  place  of  a  romance ,  instead 
of  reading  novels  they  act  them.  In  this  way  they 
undergo  five  or  six  love  experiences  before  marriage.  Aa 
far  as  virtue  is  concerned  their  tactics  are  peculiar ;  they 
surrender  the  approaches,  guard  the  fortress,  and  skilfully, 
persistently,  and  resolutely  hunt  for  a  husband. 

This  gallantry,  moreover,  is  not  particularly  delicate. 
On  the  contrary,  it  is  either  singularly  innocent  or  sin- 
gularly coarse.  These  very  young  men  who  hang  around 
a  window  for  months,  indulging  in  fond  dreams,  employ 
the  terms  of  Kabelais  in  accosting  a  woman  that  walks 
alone  in  the  streets.  Even  with  the  woman  they  love, 
they  use  terms  with  a  double  meaning  and  indelicate 
witticisms.  One  of  my  friends  happened  one  day  to  be  of 
a  party  on  a  country  excursion  along  with  a  young 
gentleman  and  lady  who  seemed  to  be  mutually  smitten, 
and  who  constantly  forgot  that  they  were  in  public.  He 
remarked  to  his  neighbour,  '  Perhaps  they  are  a  newly- 
married  couple  and  imagine  themselves  alone.'  His 
neighbour  made  no  reply  and  seemed  to  be  embarrassed 
—he  was  the  lady's  husband. — Our  friend  asserts  that 
the  great  Italian  passion  so  lauded  by  Stendhal,  that 
persevering  adoration  and  devoted  worship,  that  love 
capable  of  self-nourishment  and  of  life  endurance,  is  as 
rareliere  as  in  France.  At  all  events  it  lacks  delicacy ; 
some  women  are  enamoured  but  only  with  externals ;  what 
they  admire  is  good  looks,  fine  clothes,  fine  complexion, 
gold  chains,  and  the  whitest  of  linen.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  gentle  or  feminine  in  their  character ;  they  might 
prove  to  be  good  companions  on  dangerous  occasion! 


880  SOCIETY. 

when  energy  is  required,  but  in  ordinary  circumstance! 
they  are  tyrants,  and  in  the  matter  of  pleasure  exceedingly 
positive.  Experts  in  such  matters  declare  that  a  man 
enters  on  servitude  on  becoming  the  lover  of  a  Roman 
woman;  she  exacts  endless  attentions  and  absorbs  one's 
time  mercilessly ;  a  man  must  always  be  at  his  post,  offer 
his  arm,  bring  bouquets,  make  presents  of  trinkets,  show 
constant  devotion,  and  be  ecstatic,  for  if  not,  she  concludes 
that  he  has  another  mistress,  and  will  call  him  instantly  to 
account,  demanding  unmistakable  proofs  to  the  contrary 
on  the  spot.  In  this  country,  where  one's  tune  is  taken 
up  neither  by  politics,  industrial  pursuits,  literature,  nor 
science,  it  is  a  species  of  merchandise  without  a  market ; 
according  to  the  economical  principle  of  supply  and  de- 
mand its  value  diminishes  proportionately  and  even  ceases 
entirely;  so  rated  a  woman  may  employ  it  in  genu- 
flexions and  small  talk. 

They  have  become  accustomed  to  this  life,  which 
seems  to  us  so  limited  and  almost  dead.  Deprived  ol 
literature  and  the  resources  of  travelling  they  make  no 
comparisons  with  themselves  or  with  others ;  things  have 
always  been  so  and  always  will  be ;  once  accepted,  this 
fatality  seems  to  be  no  more  remarkable  than  the  malaria. 
Besides  this,  many  circumstances  contribute  to  rendel 
this  life  supportable.  A  person  can  live  here  very 
cheaply ;  a  family  with  two  children  and  a  servant  re- 
quires 2500  francs ;  3000  francs  are  as  much  as  6000 
francs  in  Paris.  One  may  walk  the  streets  in  a  cap  and 
thread-bare  coat ;  nobody  troubles  his  neighbour,  for 
everybody  is  thinking  of  pleasure ;  frolics  are  tolerated ; 
procure  a  confessional  ticket,  avoid  liberals,  prove  your 
docility  and  indifference,  and  you  will  find  the  govern- 
ment patient,  accommodating,  indulgent,  and  pa-ternal. 
Finally,  the  people  do  not  exact  much  in  the  matter  of 
pleasure ;  a  Sunday  promenade  in  a  fine  coat  in  the 


MANNERS  AND  CUSTOMS-LOVE.  281 

Borghese  gardens  and  a  dinner  at  a  trattoria  in  the  coun- 
try is  something  in  store  that  satisfies  the  dreams  of  a 
week.  They  know  how  to  lounge  (Jlaner),  to  gossip,  to  be 
contented  with  the  little  they  possess,  to  relish  a  fresh 
salad,  to  enjoy  a  glass  of  pure  water,  sipped  in  full  view 
of  a  splendid  effect  of  light.  There  is,  moreover,  in  their 
composition  a  large  stock  of  good  humour.  They  think 
that  one  ought  to  pass  his  time  agreeably,  that  useless 
indignation  is  folly,  and  sadness  a  disease ;  their  tem- 
perament seeks  the  joyous  as  a  plant  seeks  sunshine. 
To  good  humour  must  be  added  unaffected  famili- 
arity. A  prince  and  his  domestics  freely  converse 
and  laugh  with  each  other;  a  peasant  of  the  envi- 
rons towards  whom  you  may  stand  in  the  relation  of 
a  lord,  thee's-and-thou's  you  without  any  difficulty; 
a  young  gentleman  in  society  describes  and  criticises 
a  young  lady  as  if  she  were  his  mistress.  Uncere- 
moniousness is  complete  ;  the  petty  restraints  of  our 
society,  our  reserve  and  politeness,  are  unknown  to 
them. 

Do  they  ardently  desire  to  become  Italians  ?  My 
friends  assert  that  they  would  detest  the  Piedmontese 
before  the  end  of  a  month.  They  are  accustomed  to  li- 
cense, to  exemption  from  penalties,  to  indolence  and  the 
system  of  favoritism,  and  would  feel  ill  at  ease  if  deprived 
of  all  this.  On  the  whole,  whoever  has  a  patron,  or  is 
well  connected,  may  do  as  he  pleases,  provided  he  does 
not  concern  himself  with  politics.  The  new  tribunals 
organized  in  the  Bomagna,  at  Bologna,  for  example, 
have,  broken  up  and  punished  gangs  of  robbers  who 
found  receivers  of  stolen  goods  in  the  best  society.  A 
peasant  who  had  killed  his  enemy,  but  whose  cousin  is  in 
the  service  of  a  cardinal,  escapes  with  a  punishment  of  two 
years  in  the  galleys ;  he  was  condemned  for  twenty  years, 
but  by  degrees  obtained  his  freedom  and  returned  to  hia 
Tillage,  where  he  is  no  less  esteemed  than  he  was  before. 


S*>  SOCIETY. 

They  are  veritable  savages,  and  would  not  easily  submit 
to  legal  constraint.  Besides  all  this,  they  lack  moral 
sentiment,  and  if  they  do  not  possess  it  the  fault  is  not 
wholly  due  to  their  rulers.  Consider  the  bad  German 
governments  of  the  last  century,  quite  as  absolute  and 
arbitrary  as  this  one ;  society  was  honest  and  principles 
were  rigid,  and  the  temperament  of  the  nation  attenuated 
the  vices  of  the  constitution ;  at  Rome  it  aggravates  them. 
Man  here  has,  naturally,  no  idea  of  justice ;  he  is  too 
vigorous,  too  violent,  and  too  imaginative  to  accept  or  im- 
pose checks  on  himself;  if  he  goes  to  war  he  has  no  idea 
of  limiting  the  rights  of  war.  Six  days  ago  a  bomb  ex- 
ploded in  the  house  of  the  papal  bookseller ;  the  pro- 
gressive party  in  Europe  thus  makes  known  its  energy 
and  frightens,  it  supposes,  its  enemies ;  like  Orsini,  the 
end  with  them  justifies  the  means.  It  is  well  known  how 
Rossi  was  assassinated.  In  this  respect  the  nations  of  the 
west  of  Europe  cherish  sentiments  which  the  Romans 
lack. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  NOBILITY — THE  SALOONS — INDOLENCE— THE  CAMPAGHA— 
THE  VILLA  OF  POPE  JULIUS  III — THE  PORTA  PRIMA — FRASCATI 
TUSCULUM — THE  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI GROTTO  FERRATA. 

THE  aristocracy  is  said  to  be  very  shallow.  My  informanti 
review  the  principal  families  for  me.  Several  have 
travelled,  and  are  tolerably  well  informed,  and  not 
badly  disposed ;  but  through  a  singular  characteristic, 
due  perhaps  to  too  little  crossing  of  blood,  to  a  stagna- 
tion of  the  blood  always  confined  to  the  same  veins, 
almost  all  are  mentally  obtuse  and  narrow.  One  may 
study  their  portraits  in  a  clever  comedy  by  Count  Giraud 
'  L'Ajo  nel  imbarrazzo : '  Prince  Lello,  in  the  '  Tolla '  of 
Edmund  About,  is  taken  from  life,  the  ridiculous  letters 
therein  being  authentic. — I  reply  that  I  am  acquainted 
with  four  or  five  nobles,  or  Roman  grand  seigneurs, 
all  well-educated  and  agreeable  men,  some  erudite  or 
learned,  one  among  others  prepossessing  as  a  prince,  as 
spiritual  as  a  journalist,  as  intelligent  as  an  academician, 
and  besides  this,  an  artist  and  philosopher,  so  delicate 
and  fecund  in  wit  and  in  ideas  of  every  description  that 
he  alone  would  absorb  the  conversation  in  the  most 
brilliant  and  liberal  of  Parisian  salons.  They  reply  to 
this,  by  telling  me  that  I  must  not  base  my  judgments  on 
exceptions,  and  that  in  a  company  of  blockheads,  how- 
ever dull,  there  are  always  some  people  of  sense.  Three 
or  four — and  no  more — are  frank  and  open,  and  stand  out 
against  the  sheeplike  crowd.  These  are  liberals,  while 
the  rest  are  supporters  of  the  Pope,  and  aie  enveloped 


284  SOCIETY. 

within  their  education,  prejudices.,  and  inertia,  like  t 
mummy  wrapped  up  in  its  bandages.  You  find  on  theii 
table  petty  devotional  books,  and  coarse  songs,  their 
French  importations  consisting  of  these  alone.  Their 
Bons  serve  in  the  garda  nobile,  part  their  hair  in  the 
middle,  and  run  after  ladies,  smirking  like  the  barber 
that  dressed  it. 

There  are  very  few  salons ;  the  social  principle  ia 
wanting,  and  they  care  but  little  for  amusement.  Every 
grand  seigneur  remains  at  home,  and  receives  his  intimates 
in  the  evening,  who  are  people  belonging  to  the  house  as 
much  as  its  curtains  and  furniture.  There  is  no  fre- 
quenting of  society,  as  in  Paris,  through  ambitious  motives, 
in  order  to  form  useful  connections  and  an  establishment ; 
such  proceedings  would  be  useless ;  people  here  fish  in 
other  streams,  and  perforce,  in  an  ecclesiastical  stream. 
The  cardinals,  generally,  are  sons  of  peasants  or  of  people 
of  the  middle  class,  each  surrounded  by  intimates  that  have 
followed  him  for  twenty  years  ;  his  physician,  confessor, 
and  valet  owe  their  places  to  him,  and  they  dispense  his 
favours  accordingly.  A  young  man  can  succeed  only  by 
thus  attaching  himself  to  a  prelate's  fortunes,  or  to  those 
of  his  dependents,  which  fortune  is  a  big  vessel  impelled 
by  the  wind,  with  a  crowd  of  smaller  ones  dragging  after 
it.  Eemark  this,  that  the  great  credit  of  these  prelates 
does  not  secure  them  salons.  In  order  to  obtain  place  or 
favour  you  must  not  address  yourself  to  a  cardinal,  to 
the  chief  of  a  department ;  he  replies  courteously  and 
there  the  matter  rests.  Tou  must  push  the  secret 
springs ;  you  must  address  his  barber  or  chief  domestic, 
the  man  that  helps  him  to  change  his  shirt ;  some  morn- 
ing he  will  mention  you  and  exclaim  earnestly :  *  Ah, 
your  Eminence,  this  man  holds  sound  opinions,  and  he 
speaks  of  you  so  respectfully ! ' 

Another  circumstance  fatal  to  the  social  spirit  is  the 


INDOLENCE.  28J 

absence  of  self-abandonment.  People  distrust  each  other 
and  measure  their  words,  and  are  reserved.  A  foreigner 
here,  who  has  entertained  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
remarked  that  if  he  should  leave  Rome,  he  would  not  be 
obliged  to  write  two  letters  in  six  months,  so  few  friends  has 
he  in  this  country.  The  sole  occupation,  everywhere,  is 
love ;  the  women  pass  the  entire  day  in  balconies,  or  if 
wealthy,  go  to  mass,  and  from  thence  to  the  Corso  again 
and  again.  Without  daily  escape,  as  elsewhere,  sensibility 
when  excited,  produces  violent  passions,  and  sometimes 
remarkable  explosions,  as,  for  instance,  the  despair  of  the 
young  Marchioness  Vittoria  Savorelli,  who  died  of  a 
broken  heart  because  her  betrothed,  a  Doria,  abandoned 
her ;  and  again,  the  marriage  of  a  certain  lady  of  rank  with 
a  French  subordinate  officer,  who  saddled  his  horse  in  a 
palace  court,  and  others  of  a  romantic  and  tragic  d'enoue- 
ment. 

The  great  misfortune  for  the  men  is  this — they  have 
nothing  to  do ;  they  prey  on  themselves  or  sink  into  a 
lethargic  state.  For  lack  of  occupation  they  intrigue 
against  each  other,  play  the  spy  and  worry  themselves 
like  lazy  monks  shut  up  in  a  convent.  Especially  towards 
evening  is  the  burden  of  indolence  the  most  insupportable; 
you  see  them  in  their  immense  saloons  before  their  row? 
of  pictures,  yawning,  pacing  about  and  waiting.  Two  or 
three  acquaintances  drop  in,  always  the  same  persons, 
and  the  bearers  of  petty  gossip.  Rome  in  this  respect  is 
simply  a  provincial  town.  They  inquire  of  each  othei 
about  dismissed  servants,  a  new  piece  of  furniture,  visits 
re  turned  too  late  or  made  too  soon ;  the  houses  and  private 
life  of  everybody  are  constantly  discussed;  nobody 
enjoys  the  grand  incognito  of  Paris  or  London.  A  few 
interest  themselves  in  music  or  archaeology ;  these  talh 
about  recent  excavations,  and  the  imagination  and  affii  • 
mations  have  full  scope:  these  studies  alone  posset t 


286  SOCIETY. 

any  vitality ;  the  rest  are  languishing  or  dead ;  foreign 
reviews  and  newspapers  do  not  arrive  or  are  stopped 
every  other  number,  while  modern  books  are  wanting. 
They  cannot  converse  on  their  own  careers,  because  they 
have  none ;  diplomacy  and  all  the  important  offices  are  in 
the  hands  of  the  priests,  while  the  army  is  foreign. 
Nothing  remains  but  agriculture.  Many  devote  them- 
selves to  this,  but  indirectly  ;  they  employ  the  peasantry 
through  the  agency  of  the  mercanti  di  campagna ;  these 
generally  sublet  to  the  Neapolitan  drovers,  who  come  here 
to  pass  the  winter  and  spring.  The  soil  is  good,  and  the 
grass  abundant.  This  or  that  mercanti  sublets  at  25 
crowns  for  six  months,  what  he  has  hired  at  11  crowns 
for  the  year ;  he  gains  about  five  crowns  more  on  pastur- 
age, thus  making  nearly  300  per  cent.,  his  average  profits 
being  about  200  per  cent.  ;  in  thi?  way  he  acquires  a 
large  fortune.  Some  ruin  themselves  through  too  exten- 
sive speculations,  as  in  the  buying  and  fattening  of  cattle 
that  are  carried  off  by  disease ;  but  others,  enriched, 
become  prominent  among  the  bourgeoisie,  dress  well, 
begin  to  reason,  form  a  class  of  liberals,  and  look  forward 
to  a  revolution  which  will  place  them  at  the  head  of 
affairs,  and  especially  of  municipal  matters.  Some,  having 
acquired  enormous  wealth,  purchase  an  estate  and  then  a 
title ;  one  of  them  is  now  a  duke. — A  Roman  noble  cannot 
dispense  with  these  people ;  he  is  unacquainted  with  the 
peasantry,  as  he  does  not  reside  amongst  them ;  if  he 
attempted  to  treat  with  them  directly  he  would  encounter 
a  league.  He  has  nothing  in  common  with  them,  and  is 
not  liked  by  them ;  in  their  eyes  he  plays  the  part  cf  a 
parasite.  On  the  other  hand,  he  stands  badly  with  the 
mer:ante,  by  whom  he  feels  himself  plundered.  The 
tnercante,  in  his  turn,  in  the  eyes  of  the  peasants,  passes 
as  a  sort  of  necessary  usurer.  The  three  classes  are 
Separated ;  there  is  no  natural  government 


THE  CAMPAGNA,  287 

It  is  different  in  that  part  of  the  Romagna  which  haa 
become  Italian,  where  the  nobles  reside  on  their  estates. 
But,  excepting  in  two  or  three  cantons,  the  Roman  nobles 
who  desire  to  live  on  their  estates  and  manage  matters 
themselves,  and  assume  the  moral  and  economical  control 
of  the  country,  find  more  obstacles  now  to  contend  with 
than  ever.  In  the  first  place,  labour  is  scarce ;  the  con- 
scription of  Victor  Emmanuel  has  drawn  largely  on  the 
Abruzzians,  who  formerly  did  all  the  drudgery,  while  the 
Roman  railroads  absorb  a  large  portion  of  the  Romans, 
the  Roman  campagna  being  almost  depopulated.  Further- 
more commerce  is  too  much  dependent  on  caprice ;  the 
exportation  of  grain  is  not  free ;  special  permits  are 
necessary  for  every  operation  or  enterprise,  and  these  are 
obtainable  only  according  to  your  degree  of  influence. 
The  government  even  interferes  with  private  affairs ;  for 
example,  a  tenant  or  farmer  pays  you  no  rent ;  you  grant 
him  a  respite  of  three  months,  and  at  the  end  of  this 
another  term  of  three  months,  and  so  on.  Finally,  out  of 
patience,  you  conclude  to  expel  him  from  the  premises ; 
but  his  nephew  is  a  chanoine,  and  the  governor  of  the 
district  requests  you  to  oblige  the  poor  man  with  an  ex- 
tension of  time.  A  year  passes  and  you  employ  an  officer ; 
the  officer  stays  proceedings,  on  learning  at  the  door  that 
a  cardinal  has  interested  himself  in  the  matter.  You 
encounter  a  cardinal  in  society,  and  he  entreats  you,  on 
the  part  of  the  Pope,  to  be  merciful  to  an  honest  man  who 
has  never  failed  at  his  paschal  duties,  and  whose  nephew  is 
conspicuous  for  his  virtues  in  the  datarie. 

In  general  the  process  is  as  follows.  The  tenant  or 
peasant  demands  and  obtains  several  times  in  succession 
a  delay  of  fifteen  days.  In  this  way  he  manages  to 
catch  theferie,  that  is  to  say,  the  fete  days  near  to  Christ- 
inas, the  Carnival,  Easter,  St.  Peter's  day,  and  those 
of  the  autumn.  Some  of  these  fetes  last  two  months  • 


288  SOCIETY. 

on  account  of  the  sanctity  of  the  hour,  he  claims  still 
further  indulgence,  whereupon  the  judge  grants  him  four 
months  more.  Having  accomplished  this  he  appeals,  and 
again  gains  considerable  time.  Then  he  addresses  himself 
to  the  ud.tore  santissimo,  a  magistrate  who  is  in  direct  com- 
munication with  the  Pope,  and  who  is  always  very  tender 
to  the  poor  and  the  lower  class.  This  is  a  new  respite. 
He  next  alleges  that  his  wife  is  in  an  interesting  situation 
and  approaching  her  confinement ;  officers  are  directed  to 
keep  away,  and  you  must  wait  for  forty  days  after  the 
accouchment.  The  forty  days  are  about  to  expire ;  he 
sublets  the  house  to  an  insolvent  friend,  on  condition  that 
he  remains  in  it  as  guest.  You  are  then  obliged  to  com- 
mence proceedings  anew  against  this  scapegoat,  who,  if 
he  happens  to  be  tonsured,  compels  you  to  go  into  the 
tribunal  of  the  cardinal-vicar. — Your  shortest  way  is  to 
pay  all  expenses,  and  abandon  your  lease,  and  offer  a 
small  sum  to  your  debtor  to  pack  himself  off  and  pursue 
his  avocations  elsewhere. 

An  Italian  noble  I  am  acquainted  with  possesses  several 
houses  in  Rome.  In  front  of  one  of  these,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  is  the  garden  of  a  nunnery  ;  the  superior 
of  this  establishment  observes  that  from  the  third  story  of 
his  house  a  glimpse  can  be  had  of  a  corner  of  the  garden. 
The  proprietor  receives  an  order  from  the  cardinal-vicar 
to  close  up  and  to  board  at  his  own  expense  the  probable 
culpable  window.  I  might  cite  numberless  instances  of 
similar  annoyance.  It  is  enough  to  disgust  one  with 
proprietorship 

Man  requires  some  fixed  pursuit  to  keep  him  employed 
and  rigid  justice  to  keep  him  within  bounds ;  he  is  like 
water  which  requires  a  declivity  and  a  dyke ;  otherwise  the 
limpid,  useful,  active  element  becomes  a  stagnant  and 
fetid  quagmire.  Here  ecclesiastical  repression  dries  up 
the  stream,  and  the  regime  of  caprice  incessantly  under* 


THE  VILLA  OF  POPE  JULIUS  III.  289 

mines  tLe  dyke ;  the  quagmire  exists,  as  we  see  in  the 
foregoing  details.  If  we  find  corruption  and  misery,  it  is 
because  freedom  of  action  is  wanting,  and  a  rigid 
standard  of  justice.  My  friends  recommend  me  not 
to  judge  the  nation  by  its  present  condition;  it  is  in 
reality  better  than  it  seems  ;  it  is  necessary  to  discrimi- 
nate between  what  it  is  and  what  it  may  be.  According 
to  them,  it  is  rich  in  energy  and  in  intellect,  and  in  order 
to  convince  me,  they  are  going  to  take  me  to-morrow  into 
the  country  and  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  You  must  see 
these,  they  say,  before  reasoning  on  the  people 

March  21.  The  Country. — We  left  by  the  Porta  del 
Popolo,  and  pursued  our  way  through  a  long,  dusty 
suburb ;  here,  too,  are  ruins.  We  entered  on  the  right, 
the  half-abandoned  old  villa  of  Pope  Julius  III.  On 
pushing  open  a  dilapidated  door,  an  elegant  court  appears 
surrounded  by  a  circular  portico,  sustained  by  square 
columns  with  Corinthian  capitals ;  this  mass  has  subsisted 
through  the  solidity  of  its  ancient  construction.  Now  it 
is  a  sort  of  shed  devoted  to  domestic  purposes ;  peasants 
and  washwomen,  with  their  sleeves  rolled  up  are  straying 
about.  The  brinks  of  the  old  marble  basins  are  hung 
with  linen  awaiting  a  rinsing ;  a  duck  on  one  leg  contem- 
plates the  copious  bubbling  water  which,  distributed  for- 
merly with  such  princely  prodigality,  still  flows  and 
murmurs  as  in  early  days;  screens  of  reeds,  heaps  of 
brush,  with  manure  and  animals,  are  gathered  around  the 
columns.  These  are  the  inheritors  of  Vignolles,  Michael 
Angelo,  and  Annibale  Caro,  of  that  wise,  warlike,  literary, 
court,  which  resorted  here  at  evening  to  entertain  the 
generous  old  pope  !  On  the  left,  a  grand  staircase  with- 
out steps,  a  sort  of  easy  grade  on  which  a  man  could 
ascend  on  horseback,  developes  the  recesses  and  fine 
curves  of  its  arches. 

On  reaching  the  summit  we  forced  a  sort  of  latch,  and 
u 


290  SOCIETY. 

entered  a  loggia ;  after  his  supper  the  pope  came  here  tt 
converse  and  to  enjoy  the  fresh  breezes  and  to  gaze  on 
the  broad  campagna  spread  out  before  him.  Columns 
support  it;  on  the  ceiling  are  still  distinguishable  the 
remains  of  elaborate  panels  once  filled  with  their  animated 
groups  of  figures  ;  a  vast  balcony  prolongs  the  promenade 
and  brings  the  air  from  without  more  freely  to  the  lungs*. 
Nothing  could  be  more  grandly  conceived,  nothing  more 
appropriate  to  the  climate,  and  more  gratifying  to  artistic 
senses;  this  was  the  proper  place  to  discuss  architectural  de- 
signs, and  to  rearrange  the  groupings  of  figures.  Sketches 
were  offered  to  the  pope's  inspection  and  pencilled  in  his 
presence  ;  such  a  man,  so  liberal,  so  fond  of  the  beauti- 
ful, was  organised  to  sympathise  with  such  spirits.  Now, 
nothing  remains  but  a  kind  of  granary  ;  the  ironwork  of 
the  balcony  is  loose  in  its  sockets,  the  panels  have  fallen 
out,  the  columns  in  the  court  have  lost  their  stucco, 
and  the  mortar  and  brick  can  be  seen  within;  alone, 
the  columns  of  the  loggia  still  raise  their  beautiful  white 
marble  shafts.  Two  or  three  painters  come,  in  the  spring, 
to  nestle  in  this  ruin. 

There  is  a  whirlwind  of  dust,  and  the  sun  feebly  lights 
up  the  grey  canopy  of  cloud ;  the  sky  seems  like  lead ; 
the  sirocco,  enervating  and  feverish,  blows  in  squalls. 
The  Ponte  Molle  appears  between  its  four  statues ; 
behind  is  a  miserable  inn,  and  immediately  after  this 
the  desert  begins.  Nothing  is  more  striking  than  these 
four  shattered  statues  in  profile  against  the  grand  solitary 
waste,  forming  an  entrance  to  the  tomb  of  a  nation.  OD 
either  side  winds  the  Tiber,  yellow  and  slimy,  like  a 
diseased  serpent.  Neither  tree,  nor  house,  nor  any  cul- 
tivation is  to  be  seen  on  its  banks.  At  long  distances 
you  detect  brick  moles,  some  tottering  ruin  beneath  a 
headdress  of  plants,  and  on  a  declivity  or  in  a  hollow,  a 
quiet  herd  of  long-horned  bud  aloes  ruminating.  Bushel 


THE  POXTE  MOLLB.  291 

and  miserable  stunted  shrubs  shelter  themselves  in  the 
hollows  between  the  hills ;  the  fonnel  suspends  its  fringe 
of  delicate  verdure  on  the  flank  of  an  escarpment,  but 
nowhere  is  a  veritable  tree  to  be  seen,  which  is  the  melan- 
choly part  of  it.  Beds  of  torrents  furrow  the  uniform 
green  with  white  lines ;  the  useless  waters  wind  about, 
half  lost,  or  quietly  sleep  in  pools  amongst  decaying 
herbage. 

On  all  sides,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  this  solitude  is 
a  rolling  waste  of  strange,  monotonous  undulations,  and 
for  a  long  time  one  strives  to  recall  some  known  forms  with 
which  their  strangeness  may  be  compared.  No  one  has 
ever  seen  the  like,  for  nature  does  not  produce  such  forms ; 
something  has  been  superadded  to  nature  to  augment  the 
pell-mell  and  anarchy  of  these  upheavals.  Whether 
salient  or  depressed  their  contours  are  those  of  a  crushed 
human  structure,  disintegrated  through  the  incessant 
attacks  of  time.  You  imagine  ancient  cities  crumbled 
away  and  afterwards  covered  with  earth,  gigantic  ceme- 
teries gradually  effaced,  and  lost  beneath  the  verdure. 
You  feel  that  a  vast  population  once  dwelt  here;  that 
it  ploughed  and  tilled  the  soil  and  overspread  it  with 
buildings  and  cultures ;  that  now  nought  of  this  subsists, 
its  vestiges  even  having  disappeared ;  that  fresh  loam  and 
*  new  turf  have  formed  a  new  layer  of  ground,  and  you 
experience  a  vague  sentiment  of  anguish,  the  same  as  if 
standing  on  the  shores  of  a  deep  sea  you  saw  through  its 
abyss  of  motionless  waters,  as  in  a  dream,  the  indistinct 
forms  of  some  vast  city  sunk  beneath  its  waves. 

You  ascend  two  or  three  of  these  heights;  on  con- 
templating the  immense  circle  of  the  horizon  entirely 
etrewn  with  these  masses  of  hills,  and  this  pell-mell  of 
funereal  hollows,  your  heart  sinks  with  hopeless  dis- 
couragement. This  is  an  amphitheatre,  an  amphitheatre 
the  day  after  grand  performances,  and  now  a  Silent  sepul- 
us 


293  SOCIETY. 

chre :  a  rugged  line  of  blue  mountains,  a  distant  barriei 
of  solid  rocks  serves  as  its  wall ;  its  decorations  and  all 
its  marbles  have  perished  ;  nothing  remains  of  it  but  its 
inclosure  and  a  soil  formed  out  of  human  bones.  Here 
for  centuries  the  bloodiest  and  most  imposing  of  human 
tragedies  were  performed ;  all  nations,  Gauls,  Spaniards, 
Latins,  Africans,  Germans,  and  Asiatics,  furnished  its 
recruits  and  its  hordes  of  gladiators  ;  innumerable  corpses, 
now  mingled  together  and  forgotten,  form  its  turf. 

Some  peasants  wearing  stout  gaiters  pass  on  horseback 
with  guns  slung  over  their  shoulders,  and  then  shepherds 
in  sheepskins  with  vacant,  brilliant  and  dreamy  eyes. 
We  reach  Porta  Prima ;  ragged  little  urchins  and  a  girl 
in  tatters  and  naked  down  to  the  stomach,  cling  to  the 
carriage  begging. 

At  Porta  Prima  we  inspect  recent  excavations,  the 
house  of  Li  via,  where  six  months  ago  a  statue  of  Augus- 
tus was  found.  All  this  is  buried  beneath  the  surface. 
What  accumulations  of  soil  in  Rome !  Lately,  it  is  said, 
under  one  of  the  churches  another  was  discovered,  and 
under  that  still  another,  probably  of  the  third  century. 
The  first  had  fallen  in  during  some  invasion  of  the  bar- 
barians, and  on  the  inhabitants  returning  its  ruins  formed 
a  solid  mass,  the  shafts  of  the  columns  serving  them  as 
the  foundations  for  a  second  church.  The  same  thing 
happened  to  the  second  church,  and  the  third  arose  on  that. 
Montaigne  mentions  buried  temples  at  Rome  the  roofs  of 
which  were  a  lance's  length  below  the  pavement. — Passing 
along  a  road  one  sees  in  every  country  a  layer  of  black 
mould  which  men  cultivate ;  out  of  this  springs  the 
entire  vegetable,  animal,  and  human  population ;  the  living 
return  to  it  in  order  to  issue  from  it  in  other  forms  ;  this 
manure  bed,  over-lying  the  grand  inert  mineral  mass,  is 
the  sole  movable  portion  that  rises  and  falls  according  to 
the  passing  changes  of  existence.  Certainly,  in  no  plao« 


FKASCATI.  299 

has  the  world  been  more  violently  agitated  or  more  com- 
pletely upheaved  than  here. 

You  penetrate  with  torches  into  these  subterranean 
rooms  supported  by  props  and  dripping  with  moisture. 
In  passing  the  torch  along  the  walls,  various  fine  orna- 
ments reappear,  one  by  one,  such  as  birds,  green  foliage, 
and  pomegranates  laden  with  their  red  fruit ;  it  is  the 
same  simple,  severe,  healthy  taste  of  antiquity,  such  as  is 
disclosed  in  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii. 

The  sun  descends  in  a  broad  pale  mist ;  the  wind,  strong 
and  blinding,  raises  up  clouds  of  dust ;  under  this  double 
veil  the  dull  rays,  like  those  of  a  mass  of  red-hot  metal, 
vaguely  extinguish  themselves  in  the  infinite  desolation. 
On  the  summit  of  an  escarpment  a  miserable  tottering 
rum  is  seen,  the  acropolis  of  Fidenas,  and  on  another,  the 
dark  square  of  a  feudal  tower. 

March  22. — To-day,  an  excursion  on  foot  to  Frascati ; 
the  sky  is  overcast,  but  the  sun  in  places  pierces  through 
the  heavy  canopy  of  clouds. 

As  one  rises  towards  the  devastated  heights  of  Tuscu- 
lum  the  prospect  becomes  more  grand  and  more  melan- 
choly. The  immense  Roman  campagna  widens  and 
spreads  itself  out  like  a  sterile  waste.  Towards  the  east 
arise  bristling  mountain  crags  on  which  storm  clouds 
repose  ;  to  the  west  Ostia  is  distinguishable,  and  the  faint 
line  of  the  sea,  a  sort  of  vapoury  band,  white  like  the 
smoke  of  a  furnace.  At  this  distance  and  frjm  this  height 
the  mounds  which  emboss  the  plain  are  half  effaced  ;  thej 
resemble  the  long,  feeble  undulations  of  a  gloomy  ocean. 
No  cultivation ;  the  wan  hue  of  abandoned  fields  prolong* 
its  dull,  faded  tints  until  the  eye  can  no  longer  detect 
them.  Heavy  clouds  cover  it  with  shadow,  and  all  those 
dark  purple  bands  stripe  the  ruddy  background  as  in  the 
old  mantle  of  a  herdsman. 

Boldness,  frankness  and  energy,  without  gaiety,  charao 


194  SOCIETY. 

terise  my  young  guide.  He  is  nineteen  years  of  age, 
knows  five  or  six  French  words,  does  no  work  and  livea 
on  his  profession  of  cicerone,  or,  in  other  words,  on  the  few 
pauls  which  he  picks  up  by  chance.  His  deportment 
is  neither  agreeable,  engaging,  nor  respectful ;  he  is 
rather  gloomy  and  curt,  and  gives  his  explanations  with 
the  gravity  of  a  savage.  We  however,  as  strangers,  are 
to  him  rich  lords.  They  tell  me  that  these  people  are 
naturally  proud,  even  haughty  and  disposed  to  equality. 
At  Borne  in  a  cafe,  a  waiter  at  the  end  of  three  days  will, 
on  hearing  a  stranger  venture  on  his  first  Italian  phrases, 
criticise  him  and  exclaim  aloud  in  his  presence,  *  He  is 
getting  on  well,  he  is  improving.' 

We  lea.ve  the  Villa  Mandragone  on  our  left,  a  vast 
ruin  decked  with  swaying  plants  and  shrubbery.  On  the 
right  the  Villa  Aldobrandini  displays  its  avenues  of 
colossal  platanes,  its  sculptured  hedges,  and  its  architec- 
ture of  staircases,  balustrades  and  terraces.  At  its  en- 
trance, backed  against  the  mountain,  is  a  portico  covered 
with  columns  and  statues,  discharging  floods  of  waters 
which  pours  into  it  from  a  cascade  of  steps  above.  This  is 
the  Italian  rural  palace  constructed  fora  nobleman  of  classic 
tastes,  one  who  relished  nature  according  to  the  landscapes 
of  Poussin  and  Claude  Lorraine.  In  the  interior  the  M  a?ls 
are  decorated  in  fresco  with  '  Apollo  and  the  nine  Muses,1 
'  The  Cyclops  and  Vulcan  at  his  Forge,'  several  ceilings 
by  the  Chevalier  d'Arpino,  and  f  Adam  and  Eve,' '  David 
and  Goliath,'  and  a  *  Judith,'  simple  and  beautiful,  by 
Domenichino.  It  is  impossible  to  regaid  the  men  of  that 
day  as  of  the  same  species  as  ourselves.  They  were 
peasants,  tonsured  or  untonsured;  men  ready  for  bold 
actions,  voluptuous  and  superstitious,  their  heads  running 
on  corporeal  images,  sometimes  contemplating  in  their 
idle  hours,  as  in  a  vision,  the  form  of  a  mistress  or  the 
torso  of  a  saint ;  men  that  had  heard  the  stories  of  the 


THE  VILLA  ALDOBRANDINI.  294 

Bible  or  of  Livy  related,  and  had  sometimes  read  Ariosto, 
possessing  no  critical  power  or  delicacy,  and  exempt  from 
the  multitude  of  subtile  conceptions  with  which  our 
literature  and  education  abound.  In  the  history  of 
David  and  Goliath,  all  niceties  for  them  consisted  of  the 
diverse  movements  of  an  arm,  and  various  attitudes  of  the 
body.  The  invention  of  the  Chevalier  d'Arpino  reduces 
itself  to  the  forcing  of  that  movement  into  a  furious 
action,  and  that  attitude  into  a  contortion.  That  which 
interests  the  moderns  in  a  head,  the  expression  of 
some  rare  profound  sentiment,  elegance,  and  whatever 
denotes  finesse  and  native  superiority,  is  never  apparent 
with  them,  save  in  that  precocious  investigator,  that  re- 
fined, saddened  thinker,  that  universal  feminine  gemus, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Domenichino's  *  Judith,'  here,  is  a 
fine,  healthy,  innocent,  peasant  girl,  well  painted  and 
well  proportioned.  If  you  seek  the  exalted,  complicated 
sentiments  of  a  virtuous,  pious,  and  patriotic  woman  who 
has  just  converted  herself  into  a  courtesan  and  an  assassin, 
who  comes  in  with  bloody  hands,  feeling  perhaps,  under 
her  girdle,  the  motions  of  the  child  of  the  man  whom  sho 
has  just  murdered,  you  must  seek  for  them  elsewhere ; 
you  must  read  the  drama  of  Hebbel,  the  '  Cenci '  of 
Shelley,  or  propose  the  subject  to  a  Delacroix,  or  to 
an  Ary  Schcffer. 

I  satisfied  myself  this  evening  of  the  truth  of  this  by 
reading  Vasari.  Take,  for  instance,  the  lives  of  the  two 
Zucchero,  among  so  many  others  of  the  same  stamp. 
They'were  mechanics  brought  up  in  a  studio  from  the 
age  of  ten,  producing  as  much  as  possible,  seeking  orders 
and  repeating  everywhere  the  same  biblical  or  mythological 
subjectSjwhether  the  labours  of  Hercules,  or  the  creation  of 
man.  Their  minds  were  not  encumbered  with  dissertations 
or  theories  such  as  we  possess  since  the  days  of  Diderot  and 
Goethe.  If  mention  is  made  of  Hercules  or  of  tha 


296  SOCIETY. 

Almighty  they  imagine  a  vigorous  muscular  figure,  naked 
or  draped,  in  a  blue  or  brown  mantle.  In  a  similar 
manner,  all  these  princes,  abbes,  and  private  persona 
who  decorated  their  houses  or  churches,  only  sought  to 
please  the  eye ;  they  had  probably  read  the  tales  of  Ban- 
dello,  or  the  descriptions  of  Marini,  but  in  substance 
literature  then  did  no  more  than  illustrate  painting.  To- 
day it  is  the  reverse. 

We  ascended  to  the  heights  of  Ancient  Tusculum. 
Here  you  see  the  remains  of  a  villa  which,  they  say, 
belonged  to  Cicero  :  shapeless  masses  of  disjointed  bricks, 
and  half-disinterred  substructures,  all  melting  away 
under  the  attacks  of  winter  and  the  encroachments  of 
vegetation.  Occasionally,  as  you  advance,  you  detect 
the  walls  of  an  antique  chamber,  appearing  alongside  of 
the  road,  in  the  flanks  of  an  escarpment.  On  the  summit 
is  a  small  theatre,  strewn  with  scattered  fragments  of 
columns.  This  desolate  mountain,  covered  in  some 
places  with  low  thorny  bushes,  but  generally  bare,  where 
sharp  broken  crags  project  above  the  meagre  soil,  is  of 
itself  a  vast  ruin.  Man  once  dwelt  here,  but  he  has  dis- 
appeared ;  it  has  the  aspect  of  a  cemetery.  On  the 
summit  stands  a  cross  above  a  heap  of  blackened  stones : 
the  wind  sighs  as  it  passes  through  them,  singing  its 
lugubrious  psalmody.  The  mountains  to  the  south,  red 
with  still  leafless  trees,  the  promontory  of  Monte  Cavi, 
the  range  of  desolate  heights  beneath  their  wild  head- 
dress of  yellow  plants,  the  Roman  campagua,  under  a 
dull  shroud  of  scattered  clouds,  all  suggest  a  field  of  the 
dead. 

The  watered  forests  through  which  you  pass  on  de- 
scending the  mountain,  bloom  with  white  and  red  anemones, 
and  with  periwinkles  of  a  charming  tender  blue.  A  little 
farther  on  the  abbey  of  Grotto  Ferrata,  with  its  medieval 
battlements,  its  old  arcades  of  elegant  columns,  and 


THE   GROTTO  FERRATA.  297 

Domemchino's  sober  earnest  frescoes,  somewhat  relieves 
the  mind  of  funereal  impressions.  On  returning,  at  Fras- 
cati,  the  music  of  running  streams,  the  blooming  almond, 
and  the  hawthorns  in  the  green  hollow  of  the  mountain, 
and  the  bright  young  wheat  springing  up,  gladden  the 
heart  with  an  appearance  of  sprirg.  The  sky  has  become 
Jear,  and  the  exquisite  azure  is  visible,  flecked  with  little 
white  clouds  soaring  aloft  like  doves  ;  all  along  the  road 
round  arches  of  aqueducts  nobly  develop  themselves  in 
the  luminous  atmosphere.  Nevertheless,  even  under  this 
Bun,  all  these  ruins  strike  you  painfully — they  testify  to 
BO  much  misery  ;  sometimes  it  is  a  tottering  vault  under- 
mined at  its  base  ;  again,  an  isolated  arch,  or  a  fragment 
of  wall,  or  three  buried  stones  projecting  above  the  surface 
of  the  ground,  all  that  remains  perhaps  of  some  bridge 
carried  away  by  a  deluge,  or  all  that  subsist*  of  a  vast 
city  consumed  in  a  conflagration. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  PEOPLE  —  THE    ADMINISTRATION — OPINIONS. 

March  22.  The  People. — After  all  in  forming  a  j 
ment  of  the  Roman  peasantry,  the  principal  trait  of  their 
character  to  consider  is  their  energy,  that  is  to  say,  their 
aptitude  for  violent  and  dangerous  actions.  Here  are  a 
few  anecdotes. 

Our  friend  N ,  an  athletic  man,  and  brave,  and 

calm,  resides  in  the  country  at  a  distance  of  five  or  six 
leagues  from  this  place.  He  informs  us  that  in  his  village 
stabbing  is  quite  frequent ;  of  the  three  brothers  of  his 
servant,  one  is  in  the  bagnio  and  two  have  been  assas- 
sinated. In  the  same  village  two  peasants  were  amusing 
themselves  and  jesting  with  each  other;  one  wore  a 
flower  in  his  button  hole,  a  gift  from  his  mistress,  and  the 
other  seized  it.  *  Give  me  that ! '  said  the  lover ;  the 
other  only  laughed.  The  lover  became  serious :  '  G  ive 
me  that  immediately  I '  The  other  laughs  again.  The 
lover  now  attempts  to  retake  it  by  force,  when  the  other 
runs  off;  he  pursues  him,  overtakes  him,  and  plunges  a 
knife  in  his  back,  and  not  only  once  but  twenty  times, 
like  a  butcher  and  a  maniac.  Sanguinary  rage  is  seen 
in  their  eyes,  and  for  <•  moment  they  lapse  back  to 
a  state  of  primitive  ferocity. 

An  officer  along  with  us  cites  similar  instances.  T\vo 
French  soldiers  were  walking  along  the  banks  of  tho 
Tiber,  and  observed  a  man  attempting  to  drowu  a  J(vj  • 


THE  PEOPLE.  299 

they  prevent  it  and  blows  follow.  The  man  cries  out  foi 
help,  and  the  people  of  the  quarter  respond,  one,  an 
apprentice,  buries  his  knife  in  the  back  of  the  foremost 
soldier  who  falls  motionless.  This  soldier  possessed  the 
strength  and  structure  of  a  Hercules,  but  the  blow  was 
BO  well  directed  that  it  reached  the  heart. 

Two  other  soldiers,  in  the  country,  enter  a  field,  and 
steal  some  figs,  and  escape:  the  proprietor,  unable  to 
overtake  them,  fires  at  them  twice,  killing  one  and 
breaking  the  leg  of  the  other.  They  are  genuine  savages , 
they  think  they  have  a  right  to  make  war  on  all  occasions, 
and  to  carry  it  out  to  the  end. 

Our  friend  N attempted  in  his  village  to  abolish 

some  cruel  practices.  An  ox  or  a  cow  is  slaughtered 
there  every  week ;  but  before  they  despatch  the  poor 
brute,  they  deliver  him  over  to  the  children  and  young 
of  the  place,  who  put  out  his  eyes,  kindle  a  fire  under  his 
belly,  cut  away  his  lips  and  slash  him  like  a  martyr,  and 
all  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  furious ;— they  love 

strong  emotions.  N tries  to  dissuade  them  from 

this,  and  goes  in  search  of  a  cure,  besides  appealing  to 
others.  In  order  to  touch  them  to  the  quick,  he  gives 
them  positive  reasons ;  he  tells  them  that  '  the  meat  thus 
heated  is  not  good.'  '  What  is  that  to  us  ?  we  are  too  poor, 
and  never  eat  it,'  is  the  reply.  One  day  he  encounters 
a  peasant  severely  beating  a  donkey,  and  he  begs  him  to 
desist,  to  'let  the  poor  beast  alone.'  The  peasant 
responds  with  the  scherzo,  a  hard  biting  Roman  jest,  '  I 
did  jiot  know  that  my  donkey  had  relations  in  thia 
village.'  Such  are  the  effects  of  a  bilious  temperament, 
of  acrid  passions  generated  by  climate,  and  of  barbarous 
energy  unemployed. 

The  Marchioness  of  C tells  us  that  she  does  not 

reside  on  her  estate,  owing  to  its  great  loneliness,  and  be- 
cause the  peasants  are  too  wicked.  I  make  her  repeat  this 


800  SOCIETY. 

term;  she  insists  on  it  and  likewise  her  husband.  A 
certain  shoemaker  stabbed  a  comrade  in  the  back,  and 
after  a  year  at  the  galleys  returned  to  his  village  and  is 
now  prosperous.  Another  kicked  his  wife,  big  with 
child,  to  death.  Criminals  are  condemned  to  the  galley  a 
and  often  for  life,  but  several  times  a  year  the  Pope 
grants  an  amelioration  of  sentences;  if  one  has  a  protector 
he  escapes  from  a  murder  with  only  two  or  three  years  of 
punishment.  The  bagnio  is  not  a  very  bad  place.  The 
prisoners  acquire  a  trade  there,  and  on  returning  to  their 
villages  are  not  dishonoured,  but  rather  feared,  which  is 
often  of  utility. 

I  cite,  in  connection  with  this,  two  traits  related  to  me 
on  the  frontiers  of  Spain.  At  a  bull-fight  a  pretty  Span- 
ish lady  observes  alongside  of  her  a  French  lady  shielding 
her  eyes  with  her  hand  at  the  aspect  of  a  disembowelled 
horse  trampling  on  his  own  entrails.  She  shrugs  her 
shoulders  and  exclaims,  '  A  heart  of  butter ! '  A  Spanish 
refugee  had  assassinated  a  merchant  without  getting  a 
§pot  of  blood  on  his  clothes  ;  the  judge  says  to  him,  « It 
seems  that  you  are  an  expert  in  murder.'  The  man 
haughtily  replies, '  And  you,  do  you  ever  stain  your  robe 
with  your  ink  ? '  Three  or  four  facts  like  these  reveal  a 
stratum  of  humanity  quite  unknown  to  us.  In  these 
uncultivated  men  of  an  intense  imagination,  whose 
feelings  are  hardened  by  suffering,  the  spring  within  is  of 
terrible  power  and  its  action  prompt.  Modern  ideas  of 
humanity,  moderation,  and  justice,  are  not  yet  instilled 
into  them  so  as  to  modify  its  power  or  direct  its  blows. 
Such  as  they  were  in  the  middle  ages  such  are  they  now 

The  government  has  never  cared  to  civilise  them ;  it 
demands  nothing  of  them  but  taxes  and  a  confessional 
ticket :  in  other  matters  it  abandons  them  to  themselves, 
and  again,  sets  them  an  example  in  its  system  of  favouri- 
tism. How  can  people  entertain  any  ideas  of  equity  when 


THE  ADMINISTRATION.  801 

they  see  an  all-powerful  protection  exercised  against 
private  rights  and  public  interest  ?  An  apt  proverb  of 
theirs  which  I  modify,  says,  '  A  woman's  beauty  has  more 

power  than  a  hundred  buffaloes.'     Near  N s'  village 

stood  a  forest  of  great  value  to  the  country,  and  which  was 
about  to  be  felled ;  a  monsignor  had  a  hand  in  the  profitSj 
and  all  the  reclamations  of  our  friend  were  in  vain. 
Seeing  criminals  pardoned,  and  the  knavery  of  officials, 
makes  the  government  appear  to  them  a  powerful  being 
to  be  conciliated,  and  society  as  a  struggle  in  which  every- 
body must  defend  himself.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the 
matter  of  religion,  their  Italian  imagination  comprehends 
rites  only  ;  to  them  celestial,  like  civil  powers,  are  simply 
redoubtable  personages  whose  anger  one  escapes  through 
genuflexions  and  offerings,  and  nothing  more.  On  passing 
before  a  crucifix  they  cross  themselves  and  mumble  a 
prayer  ;  twenty  paces  off  when  Christ  is  no  longer  visible, 
they  revert  to  blasphemy.  With  such  an  education  one 
can  judge  for  himself  if  they  possess  the  sentiment  of 
honour,  and  if  for  example,  in  the  matter  of  a  vow,  they 
consider  themselves  bound  by  duty.  American  Indians 
take  pride  in  tricking  and  deceiving  their  enemies ;  in  a 
similar  manner  these  find  it  natural  to  deceive  a  judge. 
In  war  sincerity  is  a  weakness — why  should  I  give  arms 

against  myself  to  one  who  is  armed  against  me.     N , 

pistol  in  hand,  protected  a  cow  about  to  be  tortured.  In 
the  evening,  a  few  days  after,  while  standing  on  his  door- 
itep,  a  big  stone  comes  whistling  near  his  head.  He 
springs  down,  seizes  a  man  and  handles  him  pretty  roughly. 
This  man,  however,  was  not  the  offender.  He  goes  far- 
ther on  and  encounters  two  brothers;  the  elder  who  had 
thrown  the  stone,  becomes  livid,  raises  his  gun  at  N 

and  takes  aim.     N seizing  the  younger,  interposes 

his  body  as  a  shield ;  the  latter  in  the  grip  of  an  athlete, 
and  powerless,  grinds  his  teeth  and  calls  upon  his  brother 


302  SOCIETY. 

to  fire.  Just  at  this  moment,  N 'a  servant  appear! 

with  a  gun,  and  the  two  scoundrels  take  to  flight.  Our 
friend  makes  a  complaint  before  the  authorities;  four 
persons  attend,  one  of  whom  is  a  priest,  and  all  actual 
witnesses  of  the  transaction ;  they  swear  that  they  did  not 

eee  who  threw  the  stone.  Thereupon  N ,  exasperated 

and  compelled  to  make  himself  respected  and  feared  in 
order  to  live  in  the  village,  gives  to  one  of  his  neighbours, 
who  saw  nothing,  a  dollar,  and  this  person  designates 
under  oath  the  man  that  committed  the  offence.  In  Ben- 
gal, in  the  same  manner,  and  with  still  greater  facility, 
twenty  false  witnesses  appear,  for  and  against,  in  the 
same  trial.*  Neighbours  complacently  swear  in  each 
other's  behalf  or  at  so  much  per  oath,  the  same  causes  in 
the  two  countries  producing  the  same  mendacity.  In  all 
antiquity,  on  the  judge  ceasing  to  be  just,  testimony  was 
given  not  as  in  the  presence  of  a  judge,  but  as  in  that  of 
an  enemy. 

On  the  other  hand,  this  mendacious  people,  cruel  and 
violent  as  savages  are  at  the  same  time  as  stoical.  When  ill 
or  wounded,  you  see  them  with  a  broken  leg  or  with  a 
knife  in  their  bodies,  seated  perfectly  still  wrapped  up  in 
their  mantles  and  making  no  complaints,  as  concentrated 
and  passive  as  so  many  suffering  brutes ;  all  they  do  is 
to  regard  you  with  a  fixed  and  melancholy  stare. 

This  is  because  their  daily  life  is  a  hard  one,  and  they 
are  accustomed  to  such  penalties ;  they  eat  nothing  but 
polenta,  and  wear  nothing  but  rags.  Villages  are  few 
and  far  between ;  distances  of  several  leagues  must  be 
traversed  in  order  to  reach  the  fields  in  which  they  labour. 
Emancipate  them,  however,  from  this  militant  condition 
and  this  constant  strain,  and  their  rich  underlying  nature, 
abundantly  supplied  with  well-balanced  faculties,  appean 

•  See  M.  de  Valbezen,  The  English  in  India. 


OPINIONS  MS 

without    effort.     They  become    affectionate  when  well 

treated.     According  to  N ,  a  stranger  who  acts  loyally 

with  them  finds  them  loyal.     Duke  G ,  who  organised, 

and  has  commanded  for  thirty  years  a  corps  of  firemen, 
cannot  say  too  much  in  praise  of  them ;  he  compares  them 
in  patience,  endurance,  courage,  and  military  fidelity  to 
the  ancient  Romans.  His  company  are  conscious  of  being 
honourably  and  justly  treated  and  employed  in  a  manly 
occupation,  and  for  this  reason  they  give  themselves  up 
to  him  body  and  soul.  One  need  only  look  at  the  heads 
of  the  monks  and  of  the  peasants  in  the  streets  or  in  the 
country  ;  intelligence  and  energy  are  their  peculiar  cha- 
racteristics ;  it  is  impossible  to  escape  from  the  idea  that  the 
brain  here  is  ample  and  that  man  is  complete.  Stendhal, 
a  former  functionary  of  the  Empire,  states  that,  on 
Rome  and  Hamburg  becoming  French  departments,  ad- 
ministrative blanks  were  furnished  to  these  cities,  contain- 
ing minute  and  complicated  instructions  for  the  use  of  the 
customs  and  for  statistics ;  the  Hamburgers  required  six 
weeks  to  comprehend  them  and  fill  them  up,  while  the 
Romans  required  but  three  days.  Sculptors  pretend  to 
say  that,  undressed,  their  flesh  is  as  firm  and  healthy  as  in 
antiquity,  whilst  beyond  the  mountains  the  muscles  are 
ugly  and  flabby.  You  begin  to  believe,  indeed,  that 
these  people  are  the  ancient  Romans  of  Papirius  Cursor, 
or  citizens  of  the  redoubtable  republics  of  the  middle  ages, 
the  best  endowed  of  all  men,  the  best  qualified  to  invent 
and  to  act,  but  now  sunk  and  hidden  under  cowls,  rags, 
and  liveries,  employing  noble  faculties  in  chanting  litanies, 
in  intrigue,  in  begging,  and  in  self-debasement. 

Pure  water  is  still  discernible  in  this  marsh ;  when  the 
heart  overflows  its  expansion  is  admirable;  whatever 
grossness  or  licentiousness  there  may  be,  the  same  virgin 
nature  which  furnished  divine  expressions  to  the  great 
masters  still  glowa  with  enthusiasm  and  rapture.  One  of 


804  SOCIETY. 

our  friends,  a  German  physician,  has  a  servant,  a  pretty 
girl,  in  love  with  a  certain  Francesco  who  is  employed  en 
a  railroad  at  four  pauls  a  day.  He  has  nothing  and  she 
has  nothing,  and  they  cannot  many,  as  a  hundred  crowns 
are  necessary  before  they  can  commence  housekeeping 
He  is  a  worthless  fellow,  not  good-looking,  and  he  regards 
ber  indifferently;  but  she  has  known  him  from  infancy 
and  been  attached  to  him  for  eight  years.  If  she  goes 
three  days  without  seeing  him,  she  loses  her  appetite; 
the  doctor  is  obliged  to  reserve  her  wages,  fearing  that 
she  may  part  with  all  her  money.  In  other  respects  she 
is  as  pure  as  she  is  true :  she  is  strong  in  the  beauty  of 
her  feeling  and  speaks  freely  of  her  affection.  I  question 
her  about  Francesco ;  she  smiles  and  blushes  imper- 
ceptibly; her  face  lights  up  and  she  seems  to  be  in 
paradise ;  no  more  charming,  more  graceful  object  could 
be  contemplated  than  this  spiritual  Italian  countenance 
illuminated  by  a  pure,  powerful,  and  self-sacrificing  senti- 
ment. She  wears  her  beautiful  Roman  costume,  and  her 
head  is  encircled  with  the  red  Sunday  covering.  What 
resources,  what  finesse,  what  force,  what  impulses  such  a 
soul  contains !  What  a  contrast  when  one  thinks  of  the 
flushed  visages  of  our  peasantry  and  the  allurements  of 
our  conceited  grisettes  I 

Here  I  enter  on  the  delicate  question ;  and  with  a  good 
will,  as  we  are  not  orators  pre-determined  to  find  political 
arguments,  but  naturalists  unbiassed  and  uncommitted, 
occupied  in  observing  the  works  and  sentiments  of  man,  as 
we  observe  the  instincts,  works,  and  habits  of  ants  and  bees. 
Are  the  Romans  for  Italy  or  for  the  Pope  ?  According 
to  my  friends,  any  precise  answer  to  this  question  is 
difficult ;  these  people  are  too  ignorant,  too  much  affiliated 
with  the  soil,  too  rooted  in  their  village  hatreds  and  in 
ter^sts  to  have  any  opinion  on  such  questions.  Never 
theless,  one  may  suppose  them  to  be  controlled  in  this  at 


OPINIONS.  J05 

in  other  matters  by  their  imagination  and  by  habit  The 
Pope,  on  his  last  journey  amongst  them,  was  received  with 
acclamations,  the  people  being  fairly  stifled  around  his 
carriage ;  he  is  aged,  arid  his  fine  benevolent  countenance 
produces  on  their  ardent  uncultivated  natures  an  effect 
like  the  statue  of  a  saint;  his  person,  his  vestments, 
seem  laden  with  pardon,  and  they  desire  to  touch  them  as 
they  do  the  statue  of  St.  Peter.  Moreover,  the  govern- 
ment is  not  oppressive,  at  least  visibly  so ;  its  rigours  are 
all  for  the  intelligent,  its  adversary  being  the  man  who 
reads  or  who  has  been  educated  at  a  university ;  the  rest 
are  spared.  A  peasant,  indeed,  may  be  imprisoned  eight 
days  for  eating  meat  on  a  fast  day,  but  as  he  is  supersti- 
tious he  has  no  desire  to  fail  in  such  rites.  He  is  again 
obliged  to  obtain  his  confessional  certificate  ;  but  it  is  not 
repugnant  to  him  to  relate  his  affairs  in  a  vivid  and 
violent  manner,  in  a  black  wooden  box ;  besides  there  are 
people  in  the  city  who  make  a  business  of  confession  and 
of  communion ;  these  procure  certificates  and  dispose  of 
them  at  two  pauls  apiece.  In  addition  to  this  the  direct 
taxes  are  light,  and  feudal  rights  have  been  abolished  by 
Cardinal  Gonsalvi ;  there  is  no  conscription ;  the  police 
are  very  negligent  and  tolerate  petty  infractions  of  the 
law,  also  the  license  of  the  streets.  If  a  man  stabs  his 
enemy  he  is  soon  pardoned;  there  is  no  fear  of  the 
scaffold,  a  horrible  irremediable  affair  to  Southern  imagi- 
nations. Finally,  the  chase  is  allowed  throughout  the  year, 
and  the  privilege  of  carrying  arms  costs  almost  nothing ; 
there  are  no  game  preserves  save  those  surrounded  by 
walls.  It  is  easy  to  do  as  one  pleases  on  the  sole  condi- 
tion of  not  discussing  political  subjects,  in  which  nobody 
takes  an  interest  and  which  nobody  comprehends.  Ac- 
cordingly, since  the  advent  of  the  Piedmontese  there  is 
much  discontent  amongst  the  peasantry  of  the  Komagna. 
The  conscription  seems  to  bear  hard  upon  them,  and 
z 


806  SOCIETY. 

taxes  are  heavy;  they  are  annoyed  by  numberless  re- 
gulations :  for  example,  they  are  forbidden  to  dry  theii 
clothes  in  the  streets,  and  are  subject  to  a  rigid  police 
and  to  imposts  for  ultramontane  countries.  Modern  life 
exacts  steady  labour,  numerous  sacrifices,  activity,  close 
attention,  and  incessant  contrivance;  one  must  will,  strive, 
grow  rich,  instruct  himself,  and  be  enterprising.  Such  s 
transformation  cannot  be  effected  without  trials  and  oppo- 
sition. Do  you  suppose  that  a  man  who  has  lain  a-bed  for 
ten  years,  even  in  dirty  clothes  and  infested  with  vermin, 
will,  when  obliged  to  do  it,  spring  up  suddenly  and  con- 
tentedly make  use  of  his  limbs  ?  He  is  sure  to  murmur ; 
he  will  regret  his  inertia,  and  try  to  get  back  to  his  bed, 
finding  his  limbs  a  source  of  annoyance  to  him.  Give 
him  time,  however,  make  him  taste  the  pleasures  of  ac- 
tivity, of  clean  clothes,  of  plastering  up  the  crannies  of 
Lis  tenement,  of  putting  furniture  into  it,  the  fruit  of  his 
own  labour,  and  on  which  no  man,  whether  neighbour  or 
officer,  dare  put  his  hand,  and  then  will  he  be  reconciled 
to  property  and  comforts,  and  to  that  freedom  of  action 
of  which  he  at  first  simply  felt  the  inconveniences  with- 
out comprehending  either  its  advantages  or  its  dignity. 
Already  in  the  Romagna  the  mechanics  are  liberals  ;  in 
Rome,  in  1849,  countless  shopkeepers  and  small  property 
holders  shouldered  their  guns  and  betook  themselves  to 
the  fortifications  and  fought  bravely.  Let  the  peasantry 
become  proprietors,  and  they  will  entertain  the  same  views 
as  the  rest.  The  property  that  can  be  given  to  them  ia 
already  at  hand ;  before  the  late  events,  the  regular  and 
secular  clergy  of  the  Roman  states  possessed  535  millions 
of  landed  estates,  which  is  double  the  amount  of  that  of 
the  end  of  the  last  century,*  and  double  that  of  the 


*  Finances  Pontificates,  by  Marquis  Pepoli.    In  1797  the  amount 
IK*  21 7  millions. 


OPINIONS.  901 

French  clergy  at  the  present  time ;  the  Italian  govern- 
ment might  dispose  of  these  estates  as  it  is  already  doing  in 
the  rest  of  Italy.  This  is  the  great  lever  to  move.  Like 
the  French  peasant  after  1789  the  Roman  peasant  will 
devote  himself  to  cultivating,  improving,  grading,  widen- 
ing, and  extending  his  grounds ;  he  will  economise  in  order 
to  ascend  higher  on  the  social  ladder ;  he  will  put  his  son 
to  legal  pursuits,  marry  his  daughter  to  an  employe,  and 
live  on  his  income ;  he  will  learn  to  calculate  and  to  read ; 
he  will  keep  the  code  on  his  bookshelves,  subscribe  to  a 
newspaper,  invest  in  stocks,  paint  and  repair  his  domicile, 
and  fill  it  with  old  furniture  from  the  city.  Open  a  dam 
and  the  water  flows  at  once  ;  render  comforts  and  acquisi- 
tion possible,  and  people  soon  desire  to  possess  and  enjoy. 
And,  especially,  do  not  forget  prisons  for  robbery  and 
scaffolds  for  assassins,  for  with  strict  and  impartial  justice 
man  immediately  comprehends  that  only  prudent  gain 
is  honest  gain,  and  he  walks  along  inoffensive,  useful, 
and  protected  on  the  straight  road  within  the  barriers 
o!  the  law. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  GOVERNMENT,  ITS  SUPPORT  AND  ITS  INSTINCTS 

March  2&.  The  Government. — I  do  not  assume  to  look 
very  far  ahead.  Politics  is  not  my  forte,  and  espe- 
cially the  politics  of  the  future ;  it  is  too  complicated  a 
Bcience :  besides,  in  order  to  give  basis  to  a  judgment 
eerious  study  is  necessary,  and  a  much  longer  residence  in 
the  country.  Let  me  speak  of  that  which  is  visible  to 
all,  for  example,  the  government. 

Nobody  talks  about  anything  else.  I  have  not  con- 
versed with  an  Italian  that  did  not  immediately  enter  on 
the  subject  of  politics.  It  is  their  passion;  they  them- 
selves admit  that  for  fifty  years  past  poetry,  literature, 
science,  history,  philosophy,  religion,  all  intellectual  oc- 
cupations and  works  have  yielded  to  its  supremacy. 
Take  up  a  tragedy  or  a  metaphysical  tract,  and  seek  the 
intention  of  its  author  and  it  will  be  found  to  be  to 
preach  a  republic,  a  monarchy,  a  confederation  or  a 
union. 

They  say  that  the  French  occupation  of  Rome  has 
rendered  the  government  worse  than  ever.  Formerly  it 
acted  cautiously,  stopping  half-way  in  a  course  of  in« 
justice ;  nowadays,  supported  by  a  garrison  of  eighteen 
thousand  men,  it  no  longer  fears  the  discontented.  Ac- 
cordingly, nobody  doubts  that  the  day  the  French  leave 
will  be  the  last  of  papal  sovereignty.  I  try  to  have  the 
limits  and  extent  of  this  oppression  clearly  defined.  It 


INSTINCTS   OF  GOVERNMENT.  809 

is  not  violent  and  atrocious  like  that  of  the  kings  of 
Naples;  in  the  South  the  former  Spanish  tyranny  be- 
queathed habits  of  cruelty — there  is  nothing  of  the  kind 
in  Rome.  Here  they  do  not  seize  a  man  without  warning, 
in  order  to  incarcerate  him  in  a  dungeon  and  torture  him 
and  render  him  insensible  every  morning  by  dashing  ice- 
water  on  his  body.  If  he  is  liberal  and  in  ill  favour 
the  police  make  a  descent  on  his  house,  break  open  hia 
drawers,  seize  his  papers  and  carry  him  off.  At  the  ex- 
piration of  five  or  six  days  he  is  interrogated  by  a  sort  of 
justice  of  the  peace ;  other  examinations  follow,  the 
records  of  which  form  a  file  that  is  submitted  after  long 
delays  to  judges  properly  so  called.  These  study  the 
matter  quite  as  long ;  one  man  perhaps  may  be  held  on 
accusation  three  and  another  six  months.  The  trial  then 
comes  on ;  it  is  said  to  be  a  public  one,  but  it  is  not ;  the 
public  remains  outside  the  door,  only  three  or  four  spec- 
tators being  admitted,  who  are  well  known  and  reliable 
persons,  and  who  are  provided  with  tickets  of  admission. 
Again,  the  police  avail  themselves  of  accidents.  Fifteen 
days  ago  two  persons  were  assassinated  in  their  carriage 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  a  few  paces  off  the  Corso, 
and  robbed  of  ten  thousand  piastres ;  the  police,  unable 
to  find  the  villains,  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
lock  up  a  few  liberals  provisionally.  All  the  world  is 
familiar  with  a  recent  trial  the  evidence  of  which  was 
suppressed  by  the  Roman  authorities.  The  principal 
witness  was  a  prostitute  who  denounced  not  only  those 
who  visited  her,  but  others  that  never  saw  her.  A  certain 
young  man  is  implicated ;  he  is  arrested  at  night,  tried 
secretly  and  condemned  to  fiveyears'  imprisonment.  He  so- 
lemnly assured  his  brother  in  a  confidential  interview  thai 
he  was  innocent. — The  laws  are  passable,  but  arbitrary- 
power  perverts  them,  introducing  itself  into  penalties  as 
well  as  into  pardons  j  no  person  can  depend  on  obtaining 


810  SOCIETY. 

justice,  no  one  will  consent  to  be  a  witness,  nobody,  is 
averse  to  stabbing,  or  thinks  himself  safe  from  denuncia- 
tion, nobody  is  sure  of  sleeping  in  his  own  bed  and  room 
one  day  after  another. 

In  respect  to  money  nobody  has  to  fear  confiscation ; 

this  is  replaced  by  annoyances.  Marquis  A possesses  a 

large  estate  near  Orvieto  on  which  his  ancestors  founded 
a  village.  The  people  of  the  place,  authorised  by  a 
special  monsignore  decree  a  tax  on  real  estate  which 

must  be  paid  by  the  Marquis  A .  Authorised  by 

the  same  monsignore  they  commence  legal  proceedings 
against  him  respecting  a  certain  plot  of  ground ;  if  they 
gain  the  cause  he  pays  its  costs ;  if  they  lose  it  he  still 
pays,  for,  the  soil  belonging  to  him,  his  property  must 
provide  for  the  expenses  of  the  commune.  A  man  has  to 
be  a  friend  of  the  government  in  order  to  enjoy  his  in- 
come ;  if  not  he  runs  the  risk  of  deaf  ears  amongst  his 
tenantry.  It  is  by  thousands  of  petty  personal  liens  like 
these  that  the  government  holds  and  maintains  its  propri- 
etors and  nobility. 

The  members  of  the  mezzo  ceto,  such  as  lawyers,  phy- 
sicians, etc.,  are  similarly  fettered ;  their  professions  make 
them  dependent  on  this  immense  papalistic  coterie ;  if 
they  were  to  show  themselves  liberal  they  would  lose  the 
best  of  their  practice.  Beside  this,  the  establishments  of 
public  instruction  are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy; 
Home  has  not  a  single  lay  college  or  boarding-schooL 
Finally,  sum  up  the  dependants,  beggars,  clerks,  and  sine- 
curists,  actual  or  prospective,  all  of  whom  are  obedient 
and  demonstrate  their  zeal ;  their  daily  bread  depends  on 
their  fidelity.  Behold,  thus,  a  hierarchy  consisting  of 
curbed  and  prudent  people,  who  smile  with  a  discreet  air 

and  applaud  at  will.  Count  C remarked, '  It  is  the  same 

here  as  in  China;  the  feet  are  not  cruelly  amputated,  but 


INSTINCTS   OF   GOVERNMENT.  511 

they  are  so  effectually  twisted  and  deformed  under  theif 
bandages  that  people  are  incapable  of  walking.' 

Any  other  result  is  impossible — and  here  we  have  to 
admire  the  logic  of  things.  An  ecclesiastical  government 
cannot  be  liberal.  An  ecclesiastic  may  be  so;  he 
frequents  society,  the  positive  sciences  crowd  on  him,  lay 
interests  interfere  to  divert  the  native  bent  of  his  thoughts ; 
deprive  him,  however,  of  these  influences,  abandon  him  to 
himself,  surround  him  with  other  priests,  and  place  the 
reins  of  power  in  his  hands,  and  he  will  revert  back  as 
did  Pius  VII.  and  Pius  IX.  to  the  maxims  of  his  office, 
and  follow  the  invincible  tendency  of  his  profession. 
Being  a  priest,  and  especially  pope,  he  possesses  truth, abso- 
lute and  complete.  He  is  not  obliged,  as  we  are,  to  seek  it 
in  the  accumulated  judgments  and  future  discoveries  of 
all  men ;  it  centres  in  him  and  in  his  predecessors.  Prin- 
ciples are  founded  on  tradition,  proclaimed  in  papal  briefs, 
renewedin  encyclical  letters, detailed  in  theological  summa- 
ries, and  applied  in  their  minutest  details  according  to  the 
prescriptions  of  canonists,  and  the  discussions  of  casuists. 
There  is  no  human  idea  or  action,  public  or  private,  which 
is  not  defined,  classified,  and  qualified  in  the  ponderous 
folios  of  which  he  is  the  defender  and  inheritor.  More- 
over this  knowledge  is  a  living  science ;  once  received 
into  his  mind  and  duly  promulgated  all  doubts  must  cease. 
God  decides  in  him  and  through  him;  contradiction  is 
rebellion  and  rebellion  sacrilege.  The  first  of  all  duties 
therefore  in  his  eyes  is  obedience ;  investigation,  private 
judgment,  a  self-suggesting  capacity,  are  sinful.  Man 
must  allow  himself  to  be  led,  he  must  abandon  himself 
like  an  infant ;  his  reason  and  will  no  longer  reside  in 
him  but  in  another  delegated  for  this  trust  from  on  high ; 
he  has  in  short  a  director.  This,  in  fact,  is  the  true  name 
of  a  Catholic  priest,  and  this  the  object  and  end  of  the 
government  of  Ixome.  Bearing  this  title  it  may  bt 


812  SOCIETY. 

indulgent,  and  render  slight  services ;  it  may  pardon  man'l 
weaknesses,  humour  worldly  temptations,  and  tolerate  di- 
vergencies ;  violence  is  repugnant  to  it,  and  especially 
open  violence;  it  loves  unctuous  terms  and  indulgent 
proceedings;  it  never  threatens,  but  advises  and  ad- 
monishes. It  casts  over  sinners  like  a  rich  wadded  mantle 
the  amplitude  of  its  affectionate  periods ;  it  willingly  en- 
larges on  its  merciful  heart  and  on  its  paternal  instincts ; 
never  however  swerving  in  the  one  particular  of  requiring 
submission  both  of  mind  and  heart.  Having  thus  secured 
obedience,  it  emerges  from  the  theological  domain  and 
enters  that  of  private  life ;  it  decides  on  vocations,  super- 
vises marriages,  chooses  professions,  controls  promotions, 
rules  testamentary  decisions  and  the  like. 

Consequently  it  takes  especial  care  in  public  matters  to 
guard  people  against  the  perilous  temptations  of  action. 
In  Rome,  for  instance,  it  nominates  municipal  councillors 
who,  to  complete  their  board,  enjoy  the  right  of  nominating 
others ;  these,  however,  must  be  approved  of  by  the  Pope, 
all,  in  fact,  holding  their  seats  according  to  his  will. 
The  same  course  is  followed  in  other  departments;  a 
monsignore  presides  over  hospitals,  a  monsignore  super- 
intends theatres,  and  regulates  the  length  of  a  dancer's 
petticoats.  As  to  the  administrative  department,  things 
go  on  to  as  great  an  extent  as  possible  in  the  old  beaten 
track.  Political  economy  is  a  dangerous  science,  a 
modern  one  and  too  closely  associated  with  material  bene- 
fits. Taxes  are  kept  or  imposed  on  the  most  fruitful  pro- 
ducts without  a  thought  of  the  wide-spread  and  invisible 
impoverishment  of  the  country  produced  by  the  reaction.* 
Every  time  a  horse  is  sold  he  is  taxed  five  per  cent 
Cattle  at  pasture  pay  also,  and  besides  this  twenty-eight 

*  Marquis  Pepoli,  Finances  Pontificates.      See  also  the  Memoir*  of 
Cardinal  Gonsalvi, 


INSTINCTS  OF  GOVERNMENT.  313 

francs  a  head  in  the  market,  which  is  from  twenty  to  thirty 
per  cent,  of  their  value ;  fish  pay  eighteen  per  cent,  of 
the  price  at  which  they  are  sold ;  and  grain,  produced  in 
the  agro  romano,  about  twenty-two  per  cent.  Add  to 
this  an  income  tax  which  is  not  light ;  I  know  a  fortune 
of  thirty -three  thousand  crowns  ^-er  annum,  which  pays  a 
tax  of  from  five  to  six  thousand  crowns.  Besides,  they 
borrow.  All  this  belongs  to  the  traditional  practices  of 
the  luoghi  di  monte,  to  the  financial  principles  of  the  last 
two  centuries.  The  object  is  to  live,  and  they  live  from 
day  to  day ;  they  take  particular  care  not  to  disturb  the 
established  order  of  things  j  innovations  are  horrible  to 
old  people  alarmed  at  the  modern  spirit.  A  friend, 
who  has  travelled  in  Mexico,  said  to  the  Pope,  '  Your 
Holiness,  sustain  the  new  emperor ;  direct  the  Mexican 
clergy  to  conform  to  the  new  order  of  things,  otherwise, 
the  empire  will  fall :  American  Protestants  will  invade  it, 
and  colonise  it,  and  a  vast  country  will  be  lost  to  the 
Catholic  faith.'  The  Pope  seemed  to  comprehend  this, 
and  yet  the  insurmountable  weight  of  tradition  has  just 
publicly  armed  him  against  the  only  establishment  capable 
of  prolonging  the  existence  in  North  America  of  the  reli- 
gion of  which  he  is  the  sovereign  head. 

To  subsist,  impede,  withhold,  preserve,  delay,  and  ex- 
tinguish, is,  in  short,  the  nature  of  this  mind ;  if  you  seek 
for  any  other  distinct  trait  still  does  the  ecclesiastical 
spirit  furnish  it.  A  priest  is  committed  to  celibacy,  and 
for  this  reason  he  is  more  concerned  with  sins  against 
chastity  than  with  all  others.  In  our  laic  morality  the 
first  principle  is  honour,  that  is  to  say,  the  obligation  to 
be  courageous  and  true;  here  all  morality  revolves 
around  the  idea  of  sex ;  to  maintain  the  mind  in  primitive 
purity  and  ignorance  is  the  main  object,  or  at  least  to 
abstract  it  from  sensuality  by  mortification  and  abstinence, 
or,  at  all  events,  to  avoid  visible  scandal.  On  this  point  th« 


•14  SOCIETY. 

police  regulations  are  rigid ;  women  are  not  allowed  in  the 
street  at  night ;  matters  are  conducted  clandestinely,  and 
the  French  commandant  and  the  special  monsignore  fre- 
quently exchange  polite  notes.  External  decency  is  main- 
tained at  all  price, — and  at  such  a  price !  Lately  a  poor 
young  girl,  who  had  an  intrigue,  was  arrested  and  im* 
prisoned  in  a  penitentiary,  and,  as  she  was  informed,  for  life. 
'  Is  there  no  means  of  being  discharged  ? '  she  inquires. 
'  Yes,'  is  the  reply, '  if  you  can  find  some  one  to  marry 
you.'  She  sends  for  an  old  rogue  who  had  once  paid  hia 
court  to  her  fruitlessly ;  the  rogue  espouses  her,  and  a 
month  afterwards  turns  her  to  profit  in  the  usual  manner. 
Appearances,  however,  are  saved. — One  of  my  friends 
tells  me  of  a  young  girl,  seduced  by  a  mechanic,  and  who 
desired,  above  all  things,  to  suckle  her  child  herself ;  a  cure 
sends  some  gendarmes.,  takes  the  child  by  main  force,  and 
places  it  in  a  foundling  nospital. — The  cure  has  a  right 
to  interfere  in  all  your  affairs :  he  can  prevent  you  from 
keeping  a  female  servant  if  you  are  not  married ;  if  he 
suspects  an  intrigue  he  can  forbid  you  from  visiting  ladies 
single  or  married ;  he  can  expel  women  from  his  parish 
whose  conduct  seems  to  him  doubtful ;  he  can  demand  of 
the  cardinal- vicar  the  exile  of  an  actress  or  of  a  danseuse ; 
he  has  gendarmes  subject  to  his  orders,  and  is  only  re- 
sponsible to  the  cardinal- vicar. — A  Roman  cannot  possibly 
live  in  Rome  if  he  does  not  stand  well  with  his  cure ;  a 
passport  or  a  permit  to  hunt  is  not  obtainable  without  the 
cure's  certificate ;  he  has  his  eye  on  your  habits,  opinions, 
conversations,  and  studies,  the  police,  in  short,  being  on 
your  track  on  all  sides.  To  avoid  show,  to  spread  a 
varnish  of  propriety  over  life,  to  secure  the  observance  of 
rites,  to  remain  uncontradicted,  to  rest  undisturbed  in  old 
uncontested  ways,  to  be  absolute  in  the  world  of  intellect 
and  business  through  the  ascendency  of  habit  and  of 
imagination,  is  the  end  and  aim  of  priestly  pretension; 


INSTINCTS  OP  GOVERNMENT.  fU 

one  readily  perceives  how  such  an  ambition  proceeds 
not  from  a  temporary  situation  but  from  the  very  essence 
of  institutions  and  character.  A  temporal  government 
in  the  hands  of  ecclesiastics  cannot  be  otherwise;  it 
develops  into  a  mild,  petty,  listless,  respectable,  monkish 
invincible  despotism  just  as  any  plant  develops  into  itf 
flower. 


CHAPTER  V. 

•ELIGION — THE    'UNITA   CATTOLICA* — BOOKS — OBSERVANCES TH1 

COUNTRY ARICCJA GENZANO — ALBANO — SCENERY. 

I  READ  the  '  Unita  Cattolica '  every  morning  with  much 
pleasure.  It  is  an  instructive  paper ;  one  sees  clearly 
the  sentiments  that  are  called  religious  and  catholic  in 
Italy. 

One  of  the  liberal  journals  proposed  that  Italian  ladies 
should  send  their  rings  to  Garibaldi  on  his  fete  day ; — 
what  an  insult  to  St.  Joseph,  who  is,  unfortunately,  this 
bandit's  patron  saint !  As  an  offset  to  this  the  *  Unita ' 
recommends  the  ladies  to  send  their  rings  to  the  Pope, 
because  he  is  the  head  of  the  Church,  the  Church  mysti- 
cally embodying  a  character  which  ought  to  be  dear  to  all 
women,  that  of  maternity  ; — this  argument  is  irresistible. 
Another  journal  calls  the  Pope  *  the  great  mendicant ' 
(z7  gran  mendico}. — For  a  month  past  I  have  read  over  the 
lists  of  donations  placed  on  the  top  of  the  first  page, 
There  are  quite  a  number  of  them.  It  is  estimated  that 
the  Pope  annually  receives  2,000,000  piastres  from  this 
source.  Generally,  they  are  given  in  return  for  some 
favour  received  or  expected,  and  not  alone  spiritual 
favours  but  temporal ;  the  donators  in  sending  their  offer- 
ings entreat  the  blessing  of  the  Holy  Father  on  '  some 
affair  of  great  importance.'  *  One  perceives  that  he  is 

*  March  23 — Marchioness  Giulia.  .  .  .  presents  to  the  Holy  Father  « 
fold  ring  with  an  ex-voto  in  order  to  obtain  a  special  grace  from  St  Joseph.' 


OBSERVANCES.  817 

regarded  as  a  person  of  influence,  a  sort  of  prime  minister 
at  the  court  of  God.  Frequently,  his  hierarchical  position 
is  distinctly  marked ;  the  supplicant  recommends  him- 
self first  through  Jesus  Christ  to  God  the  Father,  next 
through  the  Virgin  or  some  saint  to  Jesus  Christ,  and 
finally  through  the  Pope  to  the  saints,  the  Virgin  and  Jesua 
Christ.  These  form  the  three  degrees  of  celestial  juris- 
liction ;  the  Pope  seems  to  them  to  be  the  delegate  of  the 
sovereigns  of  the  other  world,  with  full  powers  to  govern 
this  one,  all  communications  to  be  made  through  him, 
and  he  to  endorse  all  demands.  An  Italian  bigot  still 
cherishes  the  ideas  which  Luther  found  prevalent  three 
centuries  ago ;  he  specifies  and  humanises  all  his  religious 
conceptions;  in  his  eyes  God  is  a  king,  as  in  every 
monarchy,  and  access  to  him  is  only  attainable  through  his 
ministers,  and  especially  through  his  relatives,  companions, 
and  domestics. 

In  this  way  the  Virgin  becomes  of  immense  conse- 
quence ;*  she  is  in  reality  the  third  person  of  the  Trinity, 
and  replaces  the  Holy  Ghost,  who,  without  corporeal  form, 
escapes  popular  apprehension.  To  those  who  cannot  imagine 

March  26 — '  A  son  praying  for  the  recovery  of  his  mother  offers  the  Holy 
Father  ten  francs,  and  ten  francs  more  to  the  Madonna  of  Spolcto  in  order 
to  obtain  the  grace  demanded.' 

*  Saiiit  Liguori,  edition  of  the  Benedictines  of  Solesmes,  1834,  VoL  L 
p.  495. 

'Would  you  know  what  passes  in  heaven?  The  Holy  Virgin  stanla 
before  her  divine  Son,  and  shows  him  the  body  in  which  she  bore  him  for 
nine  months,  and  her  sacred  bosom  from  which  she  BO  often  nourished  him. 
The  Son  stands  before  the  Almighty  Father,  and  shows  him  his  open  aids, 
and  the  sacred  wounds  which  he  received  in  our  behalf.  At  the  sight  of 
these  sweet  evidences  of  the  love  of  his  Son,  God  can  refuse  him  nothing; 
and  we  obtain  everything. 

St.  Liguori  is  the  best  accredited  Casuist  of  modern  times;  he  has  besides 
written  various  spiritual  treatises.  I  beg  the  reader  to  read  his  Regulation 
of  a  Christian  Life,  his  Spiritual  Policy,  his  Glories  of  Mary,  and  hit 
Dogmatic  Theology,  the  chapter  D«  Matrimonio,  and  De  Bestttutione,  liv.iii, 
dubium  vi.,  articulus  iv. 


318  SOCIETY 

celestial  powers  with  out  faces,  whose  could  be  more  attrac* 
tive  and  more  merciful  than  a  woman's  ?  And  who,  with  so 
yjood  a  Son,  can  be  more  potent  and  more  esteemed  than  a 
woman  so  beloved  ?  I  have  just  glanced  over  the  pages  of 
*  La  Vergine,'  a  collection  of  articles  in  prose  and  verse^ 
published  weekly,  in  honour  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  The 
first  article  relates  to  the  visit  of  the  Virgin  to  Elizabeth, 
and  the  probable  time  the  visit  lasted ;  at  the  end  is  3 
sonnet  on  the  Angel  who,  finding  the  Virgin  so  charming, 
found  it  difficult  to  leave  her  to  return  to  heaven.  I 
have  not  the  text  at  hand,  but  I  can  vouch  for  its  sense, 
and  this  journal  lies  on  every  one's  table. — I  have  just 
purchased  a  book  which  I  have  been  recommended  to 
read,  called  *  II  Mese  di  Maria,'  largely  in  circulation 
and  which  indicates  the  tone  of  devotion  in  Rome.  It 
contains  lessons  for  every  day  of  the  month  of  May, 
accompanied  with  prayers  and  services  called  *  flowers,' 
'  garlands,'  and  *  spiritual  crowns.'  Who  can  doubt  that  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  so  generous,  and  magnanimous,  will  not, 
with  so  many  crowns  of  glory  at  her  disposal,  reserve  one 
for  him  who  with  unceasing  constancy  devotes  himself  to 
offering  these  crowns  to  her  ?  '  Here  follow  some  lines  and 
about  thirty  stories  in  support  of  the  theory.  A  young 
person  named  Esquilio,  only  twelve  years  of  age,  led  a 
very  wicked  and  corrupt  life.  God,  who  wished  to  restore 
him  to  Himself,  caused  him  to  fall  dangerously  ill,  so  that 
despairing  of  his  life,  he  hourly  expected  death.  As  he 
had  lost  all  consciousness,  and  was  supposed  to  be  dead, 
he  was  taken  into  an  apartment  filled  with  fire  ,  seeking 
to  avoid  the  flames,  he  saw  a  door  through  which  he 
passed,  and  following  the  passage,  entered  a  hall  in  which 
he  found  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  with  innumerable  saints 
who  served  as  her  retinue.  Esquilio  immediately  pros- 
trated himself  at  her  feet ;  but  regarding  him  coldly,  she 
repelled  him  far  from  her,  and  commanded  him  to  be  con- 


OBSEEVANCES.  319 

ducted  back  into  the  flames.  The  miserable  youth  im- 
plored the  saints  in  his  behalf,  and  to  these  Mary  made 
answer,  that  Esquilio  was  a  very  wicked  sinner,  never 
having  even  repeated  an  Ave  Maria.  The  saints  again 
interposed,  declaring  that  he  had  entirely  reformed; 
Esquilio,  meanwhile,  full  of  terror,  promises  to  sur- 
render himself  wholly  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  be  true  to 
it  as  long  as  he  should  live.  Then  the  Virgin,  ad- 
ministering a  severe  reprimand,  exhorts  him  to  ensure 
the  redemption  of  his  sins  by  penitence,  and  to  keep  his 
promise ;  after  which  she  revoked  the  order  which  she 
had  given  to  cast  him  into  the  flames. — Two  young 
persons  are  taking  a  pleasure  sail  on  the  River  Po ;  one 
of  them  repeats  the  service  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  other 
refuses,  stating  that  he  now  has  a  holiday.  The  boat 
capsizes,  and  both  invoke  the  Virgin ;  she  appears,  and 
taking  the  hand  of  the  former,  says  to  the  latter,  *  Since 
you  do  not  think  yourself  obligated  to  honour  me,  I  am 
not  obligated  to  save  you,'  and  he  is  drowned. — A  young 
libertine  had  abstracted  a  pen  used  to  register  the  names 
of  believers  admitted  into  the  congregation  of  Mary ;  he 
makes  use  of  the  pen  to  inscribe  a  billet-doux,  and  receives 
a  slap  on  his  cheek  without  seeing  the  hand  that  gave  it, 
accompanied  with  these  words,  '  Sinner,  hast  thou  the 
audacity  to  pollute  an  instrument  sacred  to  me  ? '  He 
falis  to  the  ground,  and  his  cheek  remains  sore  for  several 
days. — I  pass  others  equally  remarkable.  Such  are 
the  narratives  that  nourish  the  minds  of  the  women,  and 
even,  of  ladies  of  rank.  They  are  told  that  when  St. 
Theresa  was  interrupted  in  writing  a  letter,  and  got  up  to 
go  into  the  garden,  Jesus  Christ  came  and  finished  it  for 
her.  Their  husbands  have  received  similar  education, 
and  an  impression  stamped  in  by  education  is  never  effaced. 
1  have  seen  some  quite  cultivated  men  who  found  no- 
thinar  to  reprehend  in  these  books  and  narratives.  More- 


320  SOCIETY. 

aver,  many  who  seemed  to  be  enlightened,  simply  follo\f 
the  crowd.  You  express  your  surprise ;  at  first  they  reply 
that  '  we  are  compelled  to  it ; '  after  a  little  intimacy  they 
add, '  It  does  no  harm,  and  may  possibly  do  good.  In 
case  the  priest  enforce  it,  one  may  be  on  his  guard.' 
Yesterday  one  of  my  friends  smiled  on  learning  that  a 
lady  of  the  company  had  departed  on  a  journey  to  visit  a 
Madonna  whose  eyes  moved.  A  young  officer  present 
assumes  a  serious  air,  and  tells  him  that  he,  with  eight  of 
his  friends,  had  also  made  the  journey,  and  they  could 
testify  that  the  eyes  moved.  One  may  go  very  far  on 

this  road.     Countess  N has   two   children,  one  of 

whom  is  placed  under  the  protection  of  Notre  Dame  de 
Spoleto,  and  the  other  under  Notre  Dame  de  Vivalcaro, 
both  of  whom  to  her  are  two  entirely  different  personages. 
In  the  vehement,  positive  imaginations  of  these  people,  a 
statue  is  not  a  symbol,  but  a  living  goddess.  Finally, 
getting  to  have  more  confidence  in  Notre  Dame  de 
Vivalcaro  she  places  both  her  children  under  her  sole 
protection. 

You  may  imagine  from  the  foregoing  the  nature  of  the 
religion  of  the  people.  A  coachman,  employed  by  one  of 
my  friends,  is  run  away  with  on  descending  the  Pincio; 
he  finds  it  impossible  to  stop  the  horses,  and  the  first 
Madonna  he  sees  he  makes  a  vow.  One  of  the  horses 
cracks  his  skull  against  a  wall,  while  the  coachman  is 
thrown  upon  a  grated  window,  where  he  clings  to  the  bare 
and  escapes  with  a  few  scratches.  He  has  two  pictures 
painted  in  the  shape  of  an  ex-voto,  one  of  which  repre- 
sents him  at  the  moment  of  making  his  vow,  and  the 
other  when  thrown  against  the  grating. — A  femme  de 

chambre  of   the   Countess   N ,  took    tickets    in    a 

lottery  relying  upon  the  protection  of  three  saints ;  she 
lost,  and  since  that  time  no  longer  implores  saints  who 
have  treated  her  so  badly. — Minds  of  this  class  are  so 


OBSERVANCES.  »21 

vividly  impressed,  they  even  invent  superstitions  outside 

of  the  official  calendar;  for  example,  N 's  servant,  a 

female,  assures  us  that  the  Pope  is  jettatore ;  if  he  is  well 
and  able  to  bestow  the  benediction  at  Easter,  it  will  rain  ; 
if  he  should  be  ill,  the  weather  will  be  fine. — Ritual  in- 
Btruction  and  catechisms  naturally  operate  in  the  same 
sense.  I  entered  a  church  one  day  and  saw  a  priest 
engaged  in  instructing  forty  little  girls  of  about  seven  or 
eight  years  of  age :  they  looked  about  inquisitively  with 
sparkling  eyes,  all  whispering  together  like  tiny  little 
mice,  and  their  roguish  animated  little  heads  in  constant 
motion.  With  a  mild  paternal  aspect  he  went  from 
bench  to  bench,  restraining  his  excited  little  flock  with 
his  hand,  always  repeating  the  word  ildiavolo,  '  Be  careful 
of  the  devil,  my  dear  little  children,  the  devil  who  is  so 
wicked,  the  devil  who  devours  your  souls,'  etc.  Fifteen 
or  twenty  years  from  this,  this  word  will  surely  arise  in 
their  minds,  and  along  with  it  the  horrible  mouth,  the 
sharp  claws  of  the  image,  the  burning  flames,  and  so  on. 
An  attendant  at  the  church  of  Aracoeli  states,  that  during 
Lent  the  sermons  turned  entirely  on  fasting,  and  on  for- 
bidden or  permitted  dishes ;  the  preacher  gesticulates  and 
walks  about  on  a  platform  describing  hell,  and,  immediately 
after,  the  various  ways  of  preparing  macaroni  and  codfish 
which  are  so  numsrous  as  to  render  flesh-eating  gourmands 
quite  inexcusable.  Within  a  few  days  a  sausage  vender 
en  the  Corso  arranged  his  hams  in  the  shape,  of  a 
sepulchre ;  above  it  were  lights  and  garlands,  and  in  the 
interior  a  gUds  globe  filled  with  gold-fishes. — The  prin- 
ciple is  to  appeal  to  the  senses.  Unlike  the  German  or 
Englishman,  the  Italian  is  not  open  to  pure  ideas  ;  he  invo- 
luntarily incorporates  them  in  palpable  form ;  the  vague  and 
abstract  escape  or  repel  him ;  the  structure  of  his  mind  im- 
poses definite  forms  on  his  conception,  a  strong  relief,  and 
T 


522  SOCIETY. 

this  constant  invasion  of  precise  imagery,  which  formerly 
shaped  his  art,  now  shapes  his  religion. 

It  is  necessary  to  maintain  this  point  of  view,  which  is 
that  af  naturalists  :  all  irritability  disappears,  the  mind  ia 
iranquillised ;  one  sees  around  him  nothing  but  cause  and 
effect;  explained  phenomena  lose  their  repulsiveness, — at 
all  events  one  ceases  to  dwell  on  them  in  contemplating 
productive  forces  which,  like  all  natural  forces,  are  in 
themselves  innocent,  whether  employed  for  good  or  for  evil. 
Even  wrongs  and  violence  are  interesting ;  one  feels  the 
curiosity  of  the  physicist,  who,  as  a  student  of  electricity, 
comprehends  a  storm  and  forgets  his  damaged  garden  in 
verifying  the  exactness  of  laws  by  which  he  is  prevented 
from  eating  a  dessert  of  fruit.  No  three  days  pass  that  I 
do  not  read  in  the  newspapers  some  terrific  declamation 
against  two  celebrated  authors  of  our  day,  one  so  brilliant, 
amiable,  and  lively,  so  French  and  so  spirituel,  that  you 
forget  to  note  his  good  sense,  which  is  equal  to  his  wit ; 
and  the  other,  so  broad  and  delicate,  so  rich  in  general 
ideas,  so  refined  and  so  practical  in  the  art  of  feeling  and 
distinguishing  delicate  shades,  so  happily  endowed,  and 
BO  well  instructed,  that  philosophy  and  erudition,  the 
highest  generalised  conceptions,  and  the  minutest  literal 
philology  are  as  Hebrew  to  him ;  in  brief,  M.  About,  the 
author  of  *  La  Question  Romaine/  and  M.  Renan,  the 
author  of '  La  Vie  de  Jesus.'  Every  three  days  they  are 
declared  to  be  the  wickedest  of  sinners  :  one  article  that  I 
have  read  entitled  '  Renan  e  il  diavolo,*  would  prove  that 
resemblances  between  these  two  personages  are  frequent. 
Nothing  is  more  natural ;  things  passing  through  certain 
minds  assume  a  certain  colour;  the  laws  of  mental 
refraction  require  it,  and  they  are  not  less  powerful  than 
those  of  physical  refraction.  A  few  days  ago  I  witnessed 
a  similar  effect  at  the  Capitol,  relating  to  history  such  as 
it  becomes  after  being  elaborated,  deformed,  and  expanded 


THE   COUNTRY.  323 

in  the  popular  brain.  Two  French  soldiers,  contemplat- 
ing a  Judith  about  to  kill  Holofernes,  one  says  to  the 
other,  '  You  see  that  woman  there  ?  Well  she  is  called 
Charlotte  Corday,  and  that  other  is  Marat,  a  man  that 
kept  her,  and  whom  she  assassinated  in  a  bath  tub.  I 
must  say  those  kept  women  are  canaille  ! ' 

March  28.  The  Country. — We  set  out  for  Albano  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  leaving  Rome  by  the  Piazza 
San  Giovanni.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  in  Rome ;  I  have 
already  described  it  to  you ;  but  I  find  it  still  more  beau- 
tiful than  before.  After  passing  the  gate  you  turn  back 
to  look  and  you  have  before  you  that  facade  of  St. 
John  Lateran  which  at  the  first  glance  seems  exagge- 
rated ;  at  this  early  hour,  however,  in  this  grand  silence, 
and  amidst  so  many  ruins  and  rural  objects,  it  is  no  longer 
eo ;  you  find  it  as  rich  as  it  is  imposing,  the  sun  clothing  its 
lofty  groups  of.  columns,  its  assembly  of  statues  and  solid 
gilded  walls  with  the  magnificence  of  a  fete  and  the  splen- 
dour of  a  triumph. 

Hedges  are  becoming  green  and  the  elms  are  budding, 
while  at  intervals  a  rosy  peach  or  apricot  tree  looks  as 
lustrous  as  a  ball  dress.  The  grand  cupola  of  the  sky  is 
flooded  with  light.  On  the  left  the  aqueduct  of  Sextus  V., 
and  then  the  ruined  Claudian  aqueduct,  extend  their 
long  arcades  across  the  plain,  their  arches  defining  them- 
selves with  extraordinary  clearness  in  the  transparent  at- 
mosphere. Three  planes  compose  the  landscape  :  a  green 
plane  illuminated  with  a  shower  of  ardent  rays ;  the  grave 
immutable  line  of  aqueduct ;  and  beyond,  the  mountains 
in  a  delicate  golden  blue  haze.  Flocks  of  goats  and  long- 
horned  cattle  appear  in  the  hollows  and  on  the  heights, 
conical  roofs  of  shepherds'  huts  similar  to  the  huts  of 
savages,  some  herdsmen,  their  legs  swathed  in  goats' 
skins  and  here  and  there,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  some 
ruin  of  an  antique  villa,  or  tomb  crumbling  away  at  its 
T  a 


824  SOCIETY 

base,  or  column  crowned  with  ivy,  the  scattered  remains, 
apparently,  of  an  immense  city  swept  away  by  a  deluge. 
Peasants  with  bright  eyes  and  sallow  complexions  are 
striding  across  the  fields  to  save  steps.  The  relay-house 
is  a  tottering  tenement,  rusty  and  leprous,  a  sort  of  quiet 
tomb  where  two  men  are  stretched  out  wasting  with  fever. 
You  reach  Ariccia  by  a  superb  bridge  built  by  the 

Pope,  the  lofty  arcades  of  which  traverse  a  valley.    B , 

who  has  travelled  over  the  Roman  States,  says  that 
works  of  art  are  not  scarce  and  that  the  main  roads  are 
in  excellent  condition.  Architecture  and  constructions 
constitute  the  pleasure  of  aged  sovereigns.  The  self-love 
that  impels  a  Pope  to  erect  a  church  or  a  palace,  to  in- 
scribe his  name  and  family  arms  on  all  restorations  and 
embellishments,  leads  him  to  undertake  important  works 
like  these  that  offer  such  a  contrast  to  the  general  negli- 
gence surrounding  them.  Other  evidences  also  indicate 
the  presence  of  princely  taste  and  of  great  aristocratic 
property.  Some  duke  has  planted  broad  avenues  of  elms 
etretching  off  a  long  distance  beyond  the  village.  The 
village  itself  belongs  to  Prince  Chigi ;  his  villa  at  the  end 
of  the  hedge  so  dark  and  time-worn,  looks  like  a  fortified 
castle.  Below  the  bridge,  his  park  spreads  out  covering 
the  valley  and  extending  up  to  the  mountains.  Distorted 
old  trees  and  monstrous  trunks  creviced  by  age,  and  the 
ilex  in  all  the  splendour  of  its  eternal  youth  dot  the  soil 
refreshed  by  the  running  streams.  Grey  and  mossy  tree 
tops  everywhere  commingle  with  green  ones ;  the  bushes 
are  already  putting  on  their  tender  green,  which,  absent 
in  some  places,  suggests  to  the  mind  a  light  veil  caught 
up  and  withheld  by  the  thorny  fingers  of  surrounding 
branches.  All  these  tints  and  tones,  all  these  alternations 
of  light  and  shadow,  blend  together  with  a  charming 
variety  and  harmony.  The  spring  soil  has  become  mel- 
low and  fruitful;  on*  *,»  vaguely  conscious  of  the  imuba* 


GENZANO.  S2J 

tion  of  the  living  multitude  that  teem  within  ita 
depths  :  frail  sprouts  peep  through  the  bark  ;  green  specks 
glisten  in  the  air  traversed  and  peopled  by  the  flitting  rays; 
flowers  in  brilliant  attire  already  cluster  together  and  ca- 
priciously deck  the  banks  of  the  streams.  What  are 
marbles  and  monuments  by  the  side  of  the  beauties  of 
nature  I 

We  dine  at  Genzano  and  are  obliged  to  purchase  our 
meat  ourselves,  our  host  refusing  to  compromise  himself. 
He  informs  us,  however,  where  we  may  find  a  sausage 
shop.  The  inn  here  is  a  rude  affair,  a  sort  of  stable  sup- 
ported by  a  wide  arcade.  Mules  and  asses  pass  in  and 
out  alongside  the  table,  their  hoofs  clattering  on  the  pave- 
ment. Cobwebs  hang  to  the  black  beams,  while  the  light 
enters  from  without  in  one  great  mass,  filled  with  the 
swimming  specks  of  dust  within.  There  is  no  chimney  ; 
our  hostess  cooks  on  a  slab,  the  smoke  from  which  diffuses 
itself  throughout  the  apartment;  the  doors,  however,  front 
and  rear,  are  open  and  afford  us  a  current  of  air.  I 
imagine  that  Don  Quixote,  three  hundred  years  ago,  must 
have  found  just  such  inns  on  the  burning  plains  of  La 
Mancha.  Our  chairs  consist  of  wooden  benches  and  our 
fare  of  eggs  over  and  over  again.  Beggars  stick  to  us 
with  incredible  importunity,  following  us  even  to  our 
table.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  their  rags  and  filthiness. 
One  of  them  wears  torn  trowsers  exposing  both  thighs 
hung  round  with  tatters,  while  an  old  woman  has  on  her 
head,  in  the  shape  of  a  hood,  a  dishclout  which  seems  to 
have  been  used  by  a  regiment  for  a  foot  mat.  The  side 
streets  are  the  strangest  of  dirty  holes,  filled  alternately 
with  sharp  stones  and  piles  of  ordure.  The  town,  how- 
ever,  possesses  some  fine  structures,  apparently  of  ancient 
date.  My  friends  tell  me  that  there  are  villages  in  the 
mountains,  built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  so  well 
built  that  three  hundred  years  of  decadence  hav« 


526  SOCIETY. 

not  sufficed  to  impair  or  destroy  the  work  of  primitive 
prosperity. 

We  visited  Lake  Nemi,  which  is  a  cup  of  water  lying 
at  the  bottom  of  a  basin  of  mountains.  It  is  not  at  all 
grand,  any  more  than  the  Tiber ;  its  name  constitutes  its 
glory.  The  mountains  that  surround  it  have  lost  their 
forests ;  alone  on  the  shores  of  the  lake,  huge  platanea 
clinging  to  the  rocks  by  their  roots,  display  themselves 
half-reclining  upon  the  water ;  shapeless,  crooked,  gnarled 
old  trunks  reach  out  their  white  branches  and  dip  them  in 
the  grey  rippling  surface ;  not  far  off  is  a  murmuring 
cluster  of  reeds ;  periwinkles  and  anemones  abound  among 
the  moss-covered  roots,  and  through  a  labyrinth  of 
branches  appear  the  far  slopes  of  the  lake  rendered  blue 
by  distance.  A  name,  the  ancient  name  of  the  lake,  rises 
spontaneously  to  the  lips,  Speculum  Diance,  and  one 
imagines  it  as  it  appeared  in  centuries  of  militant  energy 
and  sanguinary  rites,  encircled  by  vast  dark  forests,  its 
silent  shores  deserted  except  when  disturbed  by  belling 
stags  or  the  thirsty  deer  that  came  to  drink  there ;  the 
hunter,  the  mountaineer,  who,  from  his  crag,  obtained 
glimpses  of  its  motionless  sombre  gloss,  felt  his  flesh  crawl 
as  if  detected  there  by  the  bright  fixed  eye  of  the  goddess 
on  him ;  at  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  under  the  eternal 
pines  and  inviolate  sanctity  of  time-worn  oaks  the  lake 
•hone  tragic  and  chaste,  and  its  metallic  waves  with  its 
gteel  reflections  formed  the  '  Mirror  of  Diana.* 

On  returning,  after  having  mounted  the  sinuous  back 
of  the  hill,  the  sea  comes  in  sight  flashing  like  a  sur- 
face of  molten  silver.  The  interminable  plain,  faintly 
chequered  with  cultivation,  extends  as  far  as  the  shore, 
and  there  stops  encircled  by  this  luminous  band.  Then 
the  eye  follows  avenues  of  aged  oaks,  between  which  are 
scattered  clumps  of  box  and  the  always  bright  little  popu- 
lace of  verdant  shrubs  ;  one  never  tires  of  this  immortaj 


SCENERY.  3S? 

summer  on  which  winter  never  lays  his  hand.  All  at 
once,  beneath  your  feet,  you  see  from  the  brow  of  a  hill 
Lake  Albano,  a  grand  cup  of  blue  water  like  that  of 
Nemi,  hut  wider  and  with  more  beautiful  banks.  In 
front,  ard  above  the  heights  which  form  the  cup,  rises 
Monte  Cavi,  wild  and  red  like  an  antediluvian  monster, 
akin  to  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees,  the  sole  rugged  eminence 
in  the  midst  of  mountains  that  seem  designed  by  archi- 
tects, quaintly  capped  with  its  monastery,  sometimes 
sombre  under  cloud  shadows,  sometimes  suddenly  lit  up 
by  rays  of  sunshine  and  smiling  with  wild  gaiety ; — a 
little  below  it  is  Rocca  di  Papa,  terraced  on  the  side  of  a 
neighbouring  mountain,  white  like  a  line  of  battlements, 
its  trenchant  lines  of  overhanging  houses  cutting  the 
tlireatening  stormy  sky  ; — beneath  is  the  lake  far  down  in 
its  leaden-hued  crater,  motionless  and  glittering  like  a 
plate  of  polished  steel,  here  and  there  roughened  by  the 
breeze  with  imperceptible  scales,  strangely  tranquil,  slum- 
bering with  profound  mysteriousnessunderthesilenttremor 
passing  over  it,  and  reflecting  the  indented  margin  and  the 
rich  crown  of  oaks  eternally  nourished  by  its  freshness. — 
You  raise  your  eyes  and  on  the  left  is  Castel-Gandolfo 
with  its  white  houses,  its  round  dome  relieving  on  the  sky, 
and  sharp  points  bristling  along  the  lengthened  ridge  of 
the  mountain  like  white  scales  on  a  crocodile's  back,  and 
finally  in  the  remote  background,  above  the  crags  of 
the  mountains  the  boundless  Roman  campagna,  with  mil- 
lions of  spots  and  lines,  drowned  in  a  sea  of  mist  and  light. 
A  Carthusian  convent  stands  on  the  bank  of  the  lake. 
Monks  always  choose  their  sites  with  remarkable  taste, 
and  a  singularly  noble  poetic  feeling.  Perhaps  the 
religious  life,  deprived  of  ordinary  comforts,  emancipates 
the  soul  from  commonplace  cares ;  at  all  events  such  was 
the  case  formerly.  Unfortunately,  the  horrible  and  the 
gross  quickly  establish  themselves  alongside  of  the  noble. 


Kfl  SOCIETY. 

At  the  entrance  is  a  grating,  and  behind  this  a  quantity  ol 
skulls  and  bones  of  Carthusians,  ornamented  with  appro- 
priate inscriptions.  Figure  to  yourself  the  effect  of  all 
this  on  the  imagination  of  a  passing  peasant.  The  head 
and  the  heart  are  both  impressed,  and  the  impression  lasts 
for  several  hours. — Everything  here  is  calculated  to  pro 
duce  this  sort  of  impression,  for  example,  the  service  in 
St.  Peter's.  The  high  altar  is  such  a  distance  off  that 
the  assembly  do  not  hear  the  words — I  do  not  say  com- 
prehend, for  they  are  Latin ;  this  is  of  little  moment, 
the  effect  of  the  majestic  reverberation  on  the  ear,  and 
the  glitter  of  gold  vestments,  and  the  imposing  archi- 
tecture, amply  suffice  to  excite  commotion  in  the  breast, 
and  keep  a  man  in  a  kneeling  posture. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

STATE   OF   MINDS — CONJECTURES   ON  THE   FUTURE   OF   CATHOLICISM, 

March  26. — This  evening  a  political  discussion  takea 
place,  always  the  case  at  the  end  of  a  dessert  after  your 
coffee.  On  returning  home  I  transcribed  it. 

The  principal  interlocutor  is  a  grave,  handsome,  young 
Italian,  whose  language  is  so  distinct  and  harmonious  that 
one  mig;it  almost  call  it  music.  He  is  very  animated  on 
the  question  of  the  temporal  power  of  the  Pope,  and  to 
which  I  oppose  some  clerical  arguments.  '  You  judge 
the  Pope,'  I  remark,  *  you  are  losing  your  docility  of 
mind  and  heart,  and  are  becoming  Protestant.' 

'  By  no  means.  We  are  Catholics,  and  will  continue 
BO  ;  we  accept  and  maintain  a  superior  authority  on  all 
matters  of  faith.  We  do  not  even  deprive  him  of  temporal 
power  ;  you  cannot  deprive  people  of  what  they  have  not, 
the  Pope,  in  fact,  no  longer  possessing  it.  If,  for  the  past 
thirty  years  the  Pope  has  ruled,  it  has  been  through 
Austrian  or  French  bayonets ;  never  will  he  be  more  sub- 
ject to  foreign  pressure  than  he  is  at  this  moment.  We 
have  no  desire  to  depose  him,  but  to  regulate  a  deposi- 
tion already  accomplished. 

I  resume,  and  urge  the  following.  '  The  principle  of 
Catholicism  is  not  alone  a  unity  of  faith,  but  a  unity  of 
the  Church.  Now,  if  the  Pope  becomes  the  citizen  of  a 
.•articular  state,  whether  Italian,  French,  Austrian,  01 


330  SOCIETY. 

Spanish,  it  is  quite  probable,  that  at  the  end  of  a  century 
or  two  he  will  fall  under  the  control  of  the  government 
whose  subject  or  guest  he  may  happen  to  be,  as  formerly 
the  Pope  at  Avignon  under  the  King  of  France.  Then, 
through  jealousy  or  the  necessity  of  independence,  other 
states  will  create  anti-popes,  or  at  least  distinct  patriarchs 
like  those  of  St.  Petersburg  or  Constantinople,  and 
schisms  will  arise,  and  you  will  no  longer  have  a  Catholic 
Church. — You  will  also  cease  to  have  an  independent 
Church.  A  patriarch  or  pope  subject  to  a  prince  becomes 
a  functionary.  This  you  now  see  at  St.  Petersburg  ;  such 
was  the  state  of  things  in  France  under  Philippe  le  Bel 
and  Philippe  VI. ;  when  Napoleon  tried  to  establish  the 
Pope  at  Paris,  his  object  was  to  make  him  a  minister  of 
public  worship  highly  honoured,  but  a  very  obedient  one. 
Remark  this,  that  the  European  governments,  especially 
the  French,  interfere  in  everything,  what  will  it  be  if  they 
add  an  interference  with  conscience?  Liberty  will 
perish,  and  Europe  will  become  a  Russia,  a  Roman  empire, 
or  a  China. — Finally,  religious  dogma  is  in  danger.  To 
remove  the  Pope  from  the  country,  as  you  would  transplant 
a  root  from  a  hothouse,  is  to  deliver  him  over  with  all 
dogma  to  the  action  of  modern  principles.  Catholicism 
being  infallible  is  immutable ;  its  chief  requires  a  dead 
country,  subjects  who  do  not  think,  a  city  of  convents, 
museums,  ruins,  a  tranquil  poetic  necropolis.  Imagine  an 
academy  of  sciences  here,  public  lectures,  legislative  dis- 
cussions, flourishing  manufactories,  a  stirring  universal 
promulgation  of  laic  morality  and  philosophy,  do  you 
Buppose  that  the  contagion  would  not  extend  to  and 
embrace  theology  ?  It  would  embrace  it,  and  gradually 
temper  it ;  dogmas  would  be  interpreted,  and  the  most 
objectionable  ones  dropped ;  they  would  cease  to  be 
spoken  of.  Look  at  France,  so  well  disciplined  and  so 
obedient  in  the  time  of  Bossuet ;  simply  through  cnotact 


STATE  OP  MINDS.  SSI 

with  a  reflecting  society  Catholicism  became  moderate ;  it 
cast  off  Italian  traditions,  questioned  the  Council  of 
Trent,  modified  the  adoration  of  images,  allied  itself  to 
philosophy,  and  submitted  to  the  ascendency  of  learned 
and  rational,  but  believing  laymen.  What  would  become 
of  the  papacy  amidst  the  license,  the  discoveries,  and  the 
seductions  of  contemporary  civilisation.  To  displace  or 
dethrone  the  Pope  would  in  two  centuries  transform  the 
fiith.' 

He  replies :  '  So  much  the  better.  Alongside  of 
superstitious  Catholics  there  are  true  Catholics,  to  which 
class  we  belong ;  let  the  Church  reform  and  metamor- 
phose itself  wisely,  slowly,  in  contact  with  modern  con- 
ceptions, and  that  is  all  we  want.  As  to  schisms,  they 
threaten  a  protected  Pope  as  much  as  a  Pope  dispossessed ; 
the  power  that  keeps  a  garrison  in  Rome  influences  him 
to  as  great  an  extent  as  any  potentate  of  whom  he  might 
be  the  subject  or  guest.  If  any  plan  exists  guaranteeing 
his  independence  it  is  ours ;  we  will  assign  to  him  the 
right  bank  of  the  Tiber,  St.  Peter's,  and  Civita-Vecchia ; 
he  can  live  by  himself  in  a  little  oasis  surrounded  by  a 
guard  of  honour,  and  supported  by  contributions  from 
Catholic  states,  enjoying  the  respect  and  protection  of  all 
Europe.  As  to  the  dangers  of  combining  spiritual  and 
temporal  power  in  the  hands  of  any  one  prince,  allow  me 
to  state  that  such  is  the  case  in  Protestant  countries,  for 
instance,  in  England  and  that  these  countries  are  no  less 
free.  The  conjunction  of  these  two  forces  does  not  always 
produce  servitude ;  it  consolidates  it  in  some  countries  and 
does  not  implant  it  in  others.  Meanwhile  allow  us  to 
repel  it  from  ours  where  it  establishes  it.  If  there  is 
peril  in  our  plan  it  is  for  ourselves  and  not  for  the  Pope. 
Placed  in  the  very  heart  of  Italy,  and  irritated,  he  will 
become  revolutionary  and  excite  the  people  against  us. 
But  since  we  accept  the  danger  leave  to  us  all  its  hazards, 


332  SOCIETY. 

and  do  not  impose  on  us  a  regime  which  you  reject  for 
yourselves.' 

'  What,  then,  is  the  nature  of  this  transformation  of  the 
Catholic  Church  of  which  you  have  a  glimpse  in  the  ob- 
scurity of  the  future  ?  '—Replies  to  this  query  are  vague. 
My  interlocutors  assert  that  the  upper  class  of  Italian 
clergy  contains  a  respectable  body  of  liberals,  even  among 
the  cardinals  and  especially  outside  of  Rome.  Among 
others  they  cite  Dom  Luigi  Tosti,  whose  works  I  am  ac- 
quainted with.  This  person  is  a  Benedictine  of  Monte 
Cassino,  very  pious  and  liberal,  a  reader  of  modern  philo- 
sophers, a  student  of  the  new  exegesis,  versed  in  history, 
and  fond  of  speculation  in  higher  regions,  possessing  a 
broad,  conciliating,  and  generous  mind,  and  whose  rich 
poetic  seductive  eloquence  is  that  of  a  Catholic  George 
Sand.  The  clergy  here  is  not  as  in  France  so  wholly 
under  military  discipline ;  only  in  France  has  the  con- 
tagion of  administrative  rule  spread  into  the  Church.* 
Certain  ecclesiastics  in  Italy  occupy  semi-independent 
positions;  Dom  Tosti  in  his  cloister  is  like  an  Oxford 
professor  in  his  fellowship  ;  he  is  at  liberty  to  travel,  read, 
think,  and  publish  as  he  pleases.  His  aim  is  to  place  the 
Church  in  harmony  with  scientific  development.  Science, 
in  his  view  of  it,  being  simply  decomposing,  is  not  the  only 
course :  there  is  another  as  sure,  the  atto  sintetico,  an 
absorbing  inspiration,  a  faith  and  natural  enthusiasm  by 
which  the  soul,  unreasoning  and  unanalysing,  discovers 
and  comprehends,  first  God,  and  afterwards  Christ.  That 
ardent  generous  faith,  through  which  we  embrace  beauty, 
goodness,  and  truth,  in  themselves  and  at  their  source,  ig 
alone  capable  of  binding  men  together  in  a  fraternal 
community  and  of  pushing  them  on  to  noble  deeds,  devo- 
tion, and  sacrifice.  Now  this  community  is  the  Catholic 

*  '  Mon  Clerge  est  comme  un  regiment,  il  doit  marcher,  et  il  marsh* 
Discourse  of  Cardinal  de  Boiinechose  in  the  senate,  session  of  1866. 


STATE   OP   MINDS.  833 

Church ;  and  therefore  while  maintaining  its  Gospel 
immutable  it  must  accommodate  itself  to  the  variations  of 
civil  society  ;  it  is  able  to  do  this  since  it  contains  in  ita 
bosom  "  an  inexhaustible  variety  of  forms."  She  ia 
about  to  undergo  a  metamorphosis  of  this  kind,  but  she 
will  remain,  in  conformity  with  the  essence  of  her  being, 
c<  the  mistress  of  morals.  " — What  this  metamorphosis  is 
the  foregoing  does  not  define,  and  Father  Tosti  himself 
declares  it  to  be  a  secret  in  the  hands  of  God.'  * 

Hereupon  Count  N ,  who  has  a  shrewd  penetrat- 
ing Italian  intellect,  and  whom  I  am  beginning  to  under- 
stand and  to  love,  withdrew  me  into  an  obscure  corner. 
'  These  young  people,'  he  remarks  to  me,  *  are  entering 
on  the  domain  of  poetry  ;  we  will  leave  it.  For  the  pre- 
sent put  sympathy,  patriotism,  bitterness,  and  hopes  to 
one  side ;  let  us  consider  Catholicism  as  a  fact,  and  en- 
deavour to  estimate  the  forces  which  sustain  it,  and  see 
in  what  sense  and  within  what  limits  modern  civilisation 
counteracts  or  reflects  its  action.'  Thus  stated,  the  question 
becomes  a  purely  mechanical,  moral,  problem,  and  the 
following,  in  our  view  of  it,  are  some  conjectures,  which 
one  arrives  at  on  this  ground. 

The  first  of  these  forces  is  the  supremacy  of  rites. 
Every  savage  and  child,  every  uncultured  mind,  dull  or 
imaginative,  feels  the  need  of  constructing  for  itself  a 
fetich,  that  is  to  say,  of  worshipping  the  sign  instead  of 
what  it  signifies ;  they  adapt  their  religion  to  their  intelli- 
gence, and  unable  to  comprehend  simple  ideas  or  incorporeal 
sentiments,  consecrate  palpable  objects  and  a  visible  cere- 
mony. Such  was  religion  in  the  middle  ages ;  such  ia 
it  still  almost  intact  among  Sabine  shepherds  and  the 
peasants  of  Britanny.  To  them  the  finger  of  St.  Ives, 
the  cowl  of  St.  Francis,  a  statue  of  St.  Anne  or  of  tha 

»  Prolegomeni  alia  storia  universal e  della  Chiewu 


834  SOCIETY. 

Madonna  in  a  new  embroidered  dress  is  God  ;  a  neuvame, 
a  fast,  beads  faithfully  counted,  a  meda'  reverently  kissed, 
is  piety.  One  degree  higher  a  local  saint,  the  Virgin, 
angels,  the  fears  and  hopes  these  excite,  constitute  leligion. 
Two  degrees  higher  the  priest  is  regarded  as  a  superior 
being,  the  depository  of  the  Divine  will  and  the  dispenser 
of  celestial  grace.  In  Protestant  countries  all  this  has 
been  done  away  with  by  the  reformation  of  Luther ;  it 
exists,  modified,  in  Catholic  countries,  among  the  simple- 
minded,  and  especially  amongst  populations  noted  for  an 
ardent  imagination  and  inability  to  read.  This  force  dimi- 
nishes proportionately  to  the  growth  of  intelligence  and  the 
diffusion  of  educational  facilities;  in  this  respect  Catholicism, 
feeling  the  pressure  of  modern  civilisation,  is  casting  off 
the  idolatrous  skin  of  the  middle  ages.  In  France,  for  ex- 
ample, ever  since  the  seventeenth  century  this  feature  of 
worship  and  of  faith  has  fallen  into  desuetude,  at  least, 
amongst  the  partially  enlightened  classes.  Doubtless, 
something  still  remains  and  will  always  remain,  but  it  is 
an  old  garment  becoming  thinner  and  full  of  holes,  and 
about  worn  out. 

The  second  of  these  forces  is  a  fixed,  formal,  and  com- 
plete course  of  metaphysics.  In  this  respect  Catholi- 
cism is  at  open  war  with  experimental  science,  or,  at  all 
events,  with  its  spirit,  method,  and  philosophy.  It  may 
perhaps  shift  about  and  compromise  and  rem:un  firm 
on  certain  points,  asserting,  for  instance,  that  Moses 
anticipated  the  theory  of  luminous  ether,  because  he 
makes  light  born  before  the  sun  ;  and  pretend  that  geolo- 
gical epochs  are  as  good  as  indicated  by  the  seven  days  of 
Genesis;  and  select  its  own  position  on  unexplored 
grounds,  in  relation  to  complicated  and  difficult  subjects, 
like  spontaneous  generation,  cerebral  functions,  origin  of 
languages,  and  the  like  ;  but  it  invincibly  repudiates  the 
doctrine  which  subjects  every  affirmation  to  the  test  of 


STATE   OF   MINDS.  885 

repeated  experiment  and  co-existing  analogies,  which 
poses  as  a  principle  the  immutability  of  physical  and 
moral  laws,  and  which  only  reduces  entities  to  convenient 
signs  by  which  to  note  and  to  generalise  facts.  In  short, 
it  originated  its  metaphysics  at  a  period  of  great  mental 
exaltation  and  of  unusual  subtilty,  when,  everywhere, 
minds  elevating  triad  upon  triad,  saw  nature  no  longer  but 
as  an  obscure  stepping-stone  invisible  beneath  lofty,  inter- 
minable and  magnificent  stories  of  mystic  and  supernatural 
entities.  This  hostile  attitude  recognised,  it  must  be  re- 
marked that  scientific  discoveries  and  their  application  to 
daily  life,  their  encroachments  on  unexplored  domains, 
their  ascendency  over  human  opinions,  their  influence  on 
education  and  habits  of  thought,  their  dominion  in  the 
realm  of  speculation  and  of  general  ideas,  their  force,  in 
brief,  is  constantly  increasing.  The  adversary,  accord- 
ingly, is  falling  back ;  Catholicism  cannot,  as  Paganism 
in  the  times  of  Proclus  and  Porphyry,  take  refuge  behind 
interpretations ;  it  cannot  discard  the  thing  and  keep  its 
name,  and  declare  that  it  penetrates  to  the  sense  beyond 
the  symbol,  for  within  a  century  critical  science  has  been 
born,  and  we  are  now  too  familiar  with  the  past  to  have 
it  confounded  with  the  present;  when  Hegel,  or  any 
other  conciliating  authority,  presents  the  philosophy  of 
the  nineteenth  century  as  the  heir  and  interpreter  of  the 
metaphysics  of  the  third,  he  may  interest  scholars,  but  he  • 
only  excites  the  smile  of  historians.  Catholicism,  there-  ' 
fore,  will  be  obliged  to  throw  overboard  its  Alexandrine 
cargo  the  same  as  its  feudal  cargo ;  it  may  not  cast  it 
into  the  sea  on  account  of  its  conservatism,  but  it  will  let 
it  rot  in  the  hold,  or  in  other  words,  it  will  rarely  speak  of 
it,  and  cease  to  difplay  it,  and  bring  forward  other  parts 
of  itself  into  clearer  light.  This  is  what  Protestantism 
formerly  did  openly  and  is  now  doing  insensibly;  it 
rubbed  off  a  barbarian  rust  under  Luther,  and  is  now, 


836  SOCIETY. 

through  a  modern  exegesis  rubbing  off  a  Byzantine  rust; 
after  having  emancipated  Christianity  from  rites  it  is  free* 
ing  it  from  dogmatic  formula,  and  it  may  be  asserted  that 
even  in  Catholic  countries  most  of  the  people  in  society 
who  are  orthodox  on  the  lips,  but  at  bottom  half-Arian, 
half-Unitarian,  somewhat  deistical,  somewhat  sceptical, 
tolerably  indifferent,  and  the  feeblest  of  theologians, 
would  find,  if  they  took  the  trouble  to  examine  it  rigidly, 
a  vast  difference  between  their  Catholicism  and  mediaeval 
practices,  between  the  entities  of  St.  Sophia  and  those  oi 
the  Scrapion. 

All  these  are  dead  forces,  that  is  to  say,  due  to  an  ac- 
quired momentum,  and  which  act  only  through  the  natural 
inertia  of  human  matter.  The  following  are  the  active 
forces,  that  is  to  say,  incessantly  renewed  by  fresh  im- 
pulsions. In  the  first  place  Catholicism  possessed  a 
monarchical  church,  skilfully  organised  and  the  most 
powerful  administrative  machine  ever  set  in  motion,  re- 
cruiting from  above,  standing  alone,  removed  from  lay 
intervention,  a  kind  of  moral  police  agency  which  labours 
by  the  side  of  governments  to  maintain  order  and  obedi- 
ence. Under  this  heading,  and  besides  as  it  is  funda- 
mentally ascetic,  that  is  to  say,  hostile  to  material 
pleasures,  it  may  be  considered  as  an  excellent  curb  to  a 
rebellious  spirit  and  to  the  cravings  of  the  senses.  This 
13  why  every  society  threatened  with  theories  like  social- 
ism, or  with  ardent  passions  like  those  of  contemporary 
democracy,  every  absolute  or  strongly-centralised  govern- 
ment, sustains  it  in  order  to  lean  on  it.  The  more  rapid 
and  universal  the  subversion  of  classes,  the  more  do 
men's  ambitions  and  appetites  become  feverish ;  the  greater 
the  agitation  by  which  the  lower  seeks  to  supplant  the 
upper  strata  of  society,  the  more  does  the  Church  seena 
to  be  a  salutary  and  protective  power.  The  more  dis- 
ciplinablft  a  people  are,  as  in  France,  or  inclined  of 


STATE   OP  MINDS.  33T 

obliged,  as  in  France  and  Austria,  to  entrust  matters  to 
external  authority,  the  more  Catholic  is  it.  The  esta- 
blishment of  parliamentary  or  republican  governments, 
the  emancipation  and  initiative  of  the  individual,  un- 
doubtedly operate  in  a  contrary  sense,  but  it  is  not  a  sure 
thing  that  Europe  is  progressing  towards  this  form  of 
society,  or  at  least  wholly  in  that  direction.  If  France 
remains  what  it  has  been  for  the  last  sixty  years, 
and  what  it  seems  essentially  to  be,  an  administrative 
barracks  well  regulated  and  exempt  from  robbery,  Ca- 
tholicism may  yet  exist  for  an  indefinite  period. 

The  second  active  force  is  mysticism.  Through  Christ 
and  the  Virgin,  through  the  theory  and  sacraments  of 
love,  Catholicism  offers  an  aliment  to  all  tender  and 
dreamy  imaginations,  to  all  impassioned  and  unfortu- 
nate souls.  On  this  side  only  has  it  developed  itself  for  the 
last  two  centuries,  through  the  adoration  of  the  Virgin  and 
the  Sacred  Heart,  and  quite  recently  in  the  proclamation 
of  the  latest  dogma,  that  of  the  immaculate  conception. 
The  Benedictines  of  Solesmes,  the  editors  of  the  works 
of  St.  Liguori,  make  startling  admissions  on  this  point.* 


•  Preface  to  the  complete  edition,  vol.  i.  1834.  St.  Liguori  '  is  a  neces- 
•ary  link  of  that  wonderful  chain  prolonged  to  our  time  by  means  of  which 
for  three  centuries  earth  and  heaven  have  drawn  nearer  each  other  .... 
Christ  confides  new  secrets  to  His  church ;  He  daily  instructs  it  in  the  in- 
commensurable mysteries  of  His  heart  ....  The  hearts  of  the  friends  of 
God  are  inspired  with  an  unction  unknown  to  the  faith  of  early  centuries. 
The  adoration  of  the  spouse  has  become  tenderer;  new  endearments  have 
been  revealed  ....  With  Catholics  the  mystery  of  the  Eucharist  is  a  com- 
plete religion,  and  especially  for  the  last  six  centuries  has  this  religion  of 

the  body  of  Christ  attained  to  new  developments The  prerogatives 

of  Mar>',  that  incomparable  Virgin,  have  been  placed  before  us  in  a  new 

light Inheritors  of  her  love,  we  who  see  her  interposing  herself  like 

•  delicate  cloud  and  delightfully  tempering  the  ardour  of  the  rays  of  the 
sun  of  which  she  is  the  dawn,  we  proclaim  her  the  all-powerful  mediutresa 

of  the  human  species Symbolised  by  the  heart  Christianity  obtains 

the  most  perfect  results  from  the  law  of  grace  on  which  it  is  founded.  .  . 
la  thi*  age  of  mercy  the  precepts  of  the  Lord  consist,  so  to  say,  simply,  of  th« 
8 


838  SOCIETY. 

They  declare  that  ancient  theology  was  rigid,  that  the 
Church  has  received  new  light,  that  by  a  special  revela- 
tion, she  to-day  brings  divine  goodness  and  mercy  forward, 
that  the  dogma  and  sentiment  of  love  have  attained  to 
the  highest  rank,  that  the  infinite  dignity  overspreading 
the  person  of  Mary  at  length  provides  an  altar  for  bo- 
lievers  at  which  they  may  delightfully  pour  out  all 
the  delicacies  of  adoration.  This  is  feminine  and  senti- 
mental poetry ;  add  to  it  that  of  the  cult  •  to  all  the  fluc- 
tuations of  the  century,  to  an  epoch  of  important  dissolu- 
tions of  doctrine,  these  two  poetic  agencies  rally  all  dis- 
heartened, morbid,  and  enthusiastic  minds.  Since  the 
fall  of  antique  civilisation  the  human  machine  has  under- 
gone a  great  transformation ;  the  primitive  equilibrium  of 
healthy  races,  as  maintained  by  the  gymnastic  system. 
has  wholly  disappeared.  Man  has  become  more  sensitive ; 
the  late  and  enormous  increase  of  personal  security  and 
prosperity  has  only  augmented  his  discontent  and  expan- 
ded his  exactions  and  pretensions.  The  more  man  has 
the  more  he  wants.  Not  only  do  his  desires  surpass  his 
power  to  gratify  them,  but  again  the  vague  aspirations  of 
his  heart  transcend  the  covetousness  of  his  senses,  the 
reveries  of  his  imagination,  and  the  curious  questionings 
of  his  intellect.  It  is  the  beyond  for  which  he  longs, 
and  the  feverish  tumult  of  capitals,  the  stimulants  of 
literature,  the  exaggeration  of  an  artificial  sedentary 
and  cerebal  life,  only  augment  the  pain  of  his  unsatis- 
fied desire.  For  eighty  years  music  and  poetry  have 
been  devoted  to  manifesting  this  malady  of  the  age, 
while  accumulations  of  knowledge,  overstrained  labour, 
the  vastness  of  effort  which  modern  science  and  democracy 
require,  seem  rather  designed  to  inflame  than  to  heal  the 
wound.  To  spirits  BO  eager  and  so  wearied,  a  charming 

organic  laws  of  love That  repulsive  Jansenism  appeared  with  its  rigid 

morality  like  its  dogmas,  and  with  its  dogmas  as  repulsive  a*  its  morality.' 


CATHOLICISM  m  THE   FUTURE.  339 

quietism  may  sometimes  seem  a  refuge ;  we  recognise  thia 
in  our  women  who  have  our  evils  without  possessing  our 
remedies.  In  the  lower  classes,  among  very  young  girls, 
in  the  void  of  a  provincial  life,  it  may,  through  the  seduc- 
tiveness of  its  worldly  and  coquettish  poetry,  and  by  a 
display  of  affecting  corporeal  symbols,  win  over  many 
souls,  and  some  day  perhaps  we  shall  see  a  divided  family, 
leaving  one-half  of  itself  behind,  seeking  in  ideal  love 
the  secret  effusion,  the  soothing  illusions,  and  the  de- 
lightful anguish  which  terrestrial  love  does  not  afford  it. 

Such,  then,  is  the  probable  and,  it  may  be  said,  the 
present  transformation  of  Catholicism.  To  diminish  its 
rites  save  for  the  simple,  to  let  its  metaphysics  decline 
save  in  its  schools,  to  bind  together  its  administrative 
hierarchy,  and  to  develope  its  sentimental  doctrines,  is 
what  it  has  been  concerned  with  since  the  Council  of 
Trent.  It  seems  as  if  its  special  business  for  the  future 
was  to  address  itself  to  governments  and  to  women,  to 
become  repressive  and  mystical,  to  form  leagues  and 
to  found '  sacred  hearts,'  to  be  a  political  party  and  an 
asylum  for  the  morbid.  As  the  progress  of  the  positive 
sciences  and  the  condition  of  industrial  well-being  check 
the  exaltation  necessary  to  the  establishment  of  a  new 
religion  one  can  see  no  limit  to  its  duration ;  never  has  a 
people  abandoned  its  own  religion  except  for  one  of  a 
different  character.  Only  one  grand  crisis  for  it  can  be 
detected  on  the  horizon,  and  that  in  a  century  or  two, 
namely,  the  intervention  of  the  new  Protestantism.  That 
of  Luther  and  Calvin,  so  rigid  and  literal,  is  repugnant 
to  the  Latin  races  ;  that  of  Schleiermacher  and  Bunsen, 
softened  and  transformed  by  a  new  exegesis,  accommo- 
dated to  the  demands  of  science  and  civilisation,  inde- 
finitely expanded  and  purified,  may  become  par  excellence 
a  moral,  liberal,  and  philosophic  religion,  and  win  over 
even  in  Latin  countries  that  superior  class  which,  under 


340  SOCIETY. 

Voltaire  and  Rousseau  adopted  deism.  If  this  battle  u 
fought  it  will  be  one  worthy  of  attention,  for,  between  a 
philosophy  and  a  religion  it  could  not  occur,  each  of  these 
two  plants  having  an  independent  and  indestructible  mot ; 
but  between  two  religions  it  would  be  another  thing. 
Should  Catholicism  resist  this  attack,  it  seems  to  me  that 
henceforth  it  will  be  safe  from  all  others.  Always  will 
the  difficulty  of  governing  democracies  secure  it  partisans ; 
always  will  the  silent  sufferings  of  the  sad  and  the  tender 
provide  it  with  recruits ;  always  will  the  antiquity  of  pos- 
session preserve  to  it  its  faithful  believers.  These  are  its 
three  roots,  and  experimental  science  does  not  reach  them, 
for  they  are  composed,  not  of  science,  but  of  sentiments 
and  yearnings.  They  may  be  more  or  less  ramified 
and  more  or  less  profound,  but  it  does  not  seem  that  the 
modern  spirit  has  any  hold  on  them :  on  the  contrary,  in 
many  minds  and  in  certain  countries  the  modern  spirit 
introduces  emotions  and  institutions  which  react  on  and 
consolidate  them,  and  one  day  Macaulay  declared  iu  a 
sudden  outburst  of  imaginative  eloquence  that  Catholi- 
cism will  subsist  in  South  America,  for  example,  when 
tourists  from  Australia  will  explore  the  ruins  of  Paris 
and  London,  to  sketch  the  dismantled  arches  of  London 
Bridge  or  the  crumbled  walls  of  the  Pantheon. 


CHAPTEK  VIL 

WEEK— PALM    SUNDAY— ST.   PETEB'S— THE    flflSEBEBE   AT    TM 
8I6TINE  CHAPEL — PALE8TRINA — THE  PAULINE   CHAPEL. 

Palm  Sunday. — For  the  last  eight  days  the  half  of  our 
time  has  been  passed  in  St.  Peter's.  We  witness  a  cere- 
mony and  then  sit  down  outside  on  the  steps ;  the  square 
enclosed  within  its  colonnade,  spotted  with  moving  human 
specks  and  traversed  with  silent  processions,  is  of  itself  a 
spectacle.  On  the  square  in  the  beautiful  broad  sun- 
light, between  glittering  fountains,  processions  advance, 
monks  in  violet,  red,  and  black  cowls,  pupils  of  the  semi- 
naries, a  mixed  crowd  of  visitors,  women  in  black  veils, 
and  soldiers,  all  intermingled  and  heaving  like  waves. 
The  carriages  of  the  monsignori  arrive  one  by  one,  with 
a  decoration  of  li veried  coachmen  and  lackeys ;  three  stand 
behind,  of  which  number  two  hang  on  the  vehicle  and  the 
third  hangs  on  to  them.  These  domestics  are  quite 
important  characters:  look  at  them  in  the  pictures  of 
Heilbuth,  consequential  and  tranquil,  wearing  old-looking 
new  clothes,  and  new-looking  old  clothes,  semi-beadle, 
semi-lackey,  aware  that  they  are  brushing  the  cassock  o 
a  possible  Pope,  and  that  they  are  nearer  heaven  than 
other  men,  believing  themselves  tinctured  with  holiness 
and  nevertheless  looking  closely  to  economies.  As  to  the 
prelates  their  faces  are  full  of  finesse —  not  of  that  Parisian 
finesse  which  consists  in  a  subtle  and  elegant  wit,  but  an 
ecclesiastical  and  Italian  finesse  belonging  to  diplomats 


342  HOLT  WEEK. 

and  advocates,  that  of  people  accustomed  to  self-control, 
to  wily  reserve,  and  non-comraittalism.  Peasants  lie  sleep- 
ing on  the  steps,  but  it  does  not  answer  to  approach  too 
near  them,  as  your  nose  warns  you ;  they  have  never 
•washed  themselves,  and  smell  of  the  wild  animal.  All 
around  on  the  balconies  and  on  the  doorsteps  you  per- 
ceive numbers  of  Roman  grisettes,  with  their  wavy  black 
hair  tastefully  gathered  up,  and  with  regular  well-defined 
features,  the  lips  finely  cut,  the  chin  strong  and  eyes 
fixed.  Sometimes  one  of  these  beautiful  redoutable  headl 
shows  itself  from  a  miserable  dirty  window  ;  you  observe 
it  there  in  the  morning  and  again  in  the  afternoon,  tho 
day  having  thus  been  passed  in  seeing  and  being  seen. 

To  a  person  of  a  religious  temperament  the  spectacle  in 
the  interior  of  St.  Peter's  is  not  edifying.  The  soldiers 
of  the  papal  guard  yawn  and  turn  round  to  ogle  the 
women  that  pass  them.  During  the  mass  the  officiating 
parties  circulate  about  talking  in  whispers  or  in  a  low  voice, 
and  as  there  are  no  benches  or  chairs  to  sit  on,  they  try 
to  support  themselves  against  the  columns,  now  resting  on 
one  foot,  now  on  the  other,  and  some  of  them  going  to  sleep. 
You  hear  everywhere  a  continuous  roar,  a  coming  and 
going  as  in  a  public  hall.  You  stretch  yourself  on  tiptoe  to 
see  the  Pope's  Swiss  guard  pass  wearing  ruffs  and  motley 
costumes,  and  carrying  the  halberds  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury; and  next  the  apparitors,  in  black  velvet  doublets  and 
Spanish  cloaks,  with  gold  chains,  and  the  ruff  also  of  the 
time  of  Philip  II.  At  length  the  procession  starts: 
every  figure  in  white  represents  an  apostle  and  holds  a 
wand  enwreathed  with  yellow,  figuring  a  palm  branch ; 
others  are  in  black,  violet,  and  red,  the  bishops,  the  last 
of  all,  glittering  in  their  damask  copes  ;  many  of  them 
are  smiling,  talking,  and  carelessly  looking  about  them 
In  the  background,  behind  the  great  baldachino,  you  ob 
tain  glimpses  of  genuflexions  and  postures,  the  remnants  of 


ST.  PETER'S.  S43 

ancient  symbolic  ceremonies  so  little  appropriate  to  present 
times.  On  the  sides,  in  two  vast  balconies,  stand  women 
dressed  in  black,  wearing  black  veils  with  a  l  Murray,' 
and  an  opera-glass  in  their  hands.  Complaints  are  heard  of 
the  incompleteness  of  the  ceremony.  The  Pope  has  been 
attacked  with  erysipelas,  and  which,  being  opened,  has 
discharged  a  good  deal  of  water,  and  it  is  not  certain  that 
he  can  officiate  at  Easter ; — the  medical  details  are  related 
with  considerable  minuteness.  Nobody  expresses  genuine 
interest  or  sympathy  ;  all  that  concerns  the  public  is  the 
loss  of  the  principal  actor  whose  absence  impairs  the  effect 
of  the  representation.  People  converse  and  accost  each 
other,  and  promenade  as  in  the  foyer  of  the  opera.  And 
this  is  all  that  remains  of  the  glorious  pompous  ceremonies 
of  the  times  of  Pope  Boniface  VIII.  which  attracted  pil- 
grims by  hundreds  of  thousands :  nothing  but  a  deco- 
ration that  is  a  decoration  no  longer,  an  empty  cere- 
monial, an  object  for  archaeologists  to  study,  a  picture  for 
artists,  a  curiosity  for  idlers,  a  mass  of  rites  to  which  every 
century  has  contributed  something,  similar  to  the  city 
itself  where  living  faith  and  the  spontaneous  emotion 
of  the  heart  find  no  longer  corresponding  objects,  but 
where  painters,  antiquaries,  and  tourists  congregate. 

From  a  picturesque  point  of  view  the  effect  is  quite 
otherwise.  Thus  filled  and  measured  by  the  crowd 
the  church  becomes  colossal ;  the  moving,  waving  swarm 
of  people  gives  it  the  animation  of  a  painting.  The 
light  streaming  in  from  the  dome  amidst  all  this  marble 
seems  to  be  a  shower  of  rays  of  dazzling  splendour. 
The  great  baldachino  sending  up  its  dark  spiral  columns 
amongst  clouds  of  incense,  the  vague  harmony  of  the  musia 
softened  by  distance,  the  magnificence  of  marbles  and  of 
decorations,  the  crowds  of  statues  apparently  moving  in  the 
shadowy  indistinctness,  the  assemblage  and  concord  of  so 
many  monumental  forms  and  grand  round  lines,  all 


344  HOLY   WEEK. 

contribute  to  render  it  a  fete,  a  song  of  triumph  and  of 
rejoicing.  I  should  like  to  hear  the  Prayer  from  Rossini'a 
Moise  sung  here  by  three  hundred  voices,  accompanied 
by  a  suitable  orchestra. 

The  Miserere  at  the  Sistine  chapel. — Myself  and  every 
other  man  standing  for  three  hours.  The  first  two  hours 
pass  and  many,  able  to  stand  no  longer,  withdraw.  Bodies 
are  jammed  together  as  if  in  a  vice.  Faces,  too,  are  so 
red  and  yellow  and  wrinkled  that  you  are  reminded  of 
the  damned  in  Michael  Angelo's  fresco.  Your  feet  and 
calves,  and  loins  all  seem  to  collapse.  Fortunate  are 
those  who  find  a  column  to  lean  against  I  Several  strive 
to  get  at  their  handkerchiefs  to  wipe  off  the  perspiration 
from  their  foreheads,  while  others  fruitlessly  try  to  raise 
their  hats.  You  can  see  nothing  but  a  forest  of  heads. 
The  crowd  push  against  the  door,  and  now  and  then  some 
official  bursts  through  painfully  making  his  way,  thanks 
to  the  shoulders  of  the  acolytes,  like  an  iron  wedge  pene- 
trating a  piece  of  wood.  Under  the  tribunes  at  the 
entrance,  in  a  sort  of  cage,  the  ladies  are  seated  on  their 
heels,  breathing  aromatic  vinegar.  Here  and  there  a 
Swiss  guard  in  white  plumes  and  fancy  costume  t  urns  his 
broad  feet  to  account  and  props  himself  up  on  his  halberd. 
Meanwhile  the  monotonous  drone  of  the  psalms  con- 
tinues. 

This  does  not  prevent  Michael  Angelo's  figures  from 
appearing  like  giants  and  heroes.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
throw  myself  on  my  back  to  look  at  those  prophets  I 
What  valiant  trunks,  what  magnificent  primitive  bodies, 
those  of  Adam  and  Eve!  And  that  terrible  figure  of 
Christ  the  judge  I  What  an  avenging  Apollo,  what 
a  sublime  Jupiter  the  Thunderer  I  With  what  an  air  of 
a  victorious  combatant  does  he  assail  the  figures  of  his 
falling  enemies.  Everything  here  is  derived  from  the 
antique.  When  Bramante  conceived  St.  Peter's  he 


THE   MISERERE.  844 

borrowed  his  two  ideas  from  the  Pantheon  and  the 
Basilica  of  Constantino.  The  two  ages  meet. 

At  length  comes  the  Kyrie  and  then  the  Miserere. 
This  is  worth  all  the  pains  in  the  knees  and  loins  one 
Buffers  in  order  to  hear  it.  It  is  a  remarkably  strange 
production  ;  there  are  prolonged!  chords  in  it  which  seem 
false,  and  which  affect  the  ear  with  a  sensation  analogous 
to  that  of  an  acid  fruit  in  the  mouth.  There  is  no  pure 
melody  or  rhythmic  chant ;  it  consists  of  a  commingling 
and  conflict  of  tones,  long  strains,  and  vague  plaintive 
voices  resembling  those  of  an  .^Eolian  harp,  or  the  shrill 
lamentations  of  the  wind  through  trees  and  other  innumer- 
able mournful  and  sweet  sounds  of  nature.  Nothing  can 
be  grander  and  more  original;  the  musical  age  which 
produced  such  a  mass  is  separated  from  ours  by  an 
immense  gulf.  This  music  is  unlimited  in  its  tenderness 
and  resignation,  being  much  more  sad  than  any  modern 
production ;  it  issues  from  a  religious  and  delicate  soul ;  it 
might  have  been  written  in  some  convent  lost  in  the  depths 
of  a  solitude,  after  long  and  vague  reveries  amongst  the 
whisperings  and  sighings  of  the  wind  weeping  in  melodies 
around  the  rocks.  I  must  not  fail  to  hear  the  Miserere 
of  to-morrow.  One  is  by  Palestrina  and  the  other  by 
Allegri.  What  a  fund  of  strange  profound  sentiments  I 
Such  is  the  music  of  the  Catholic  restoration  as  the 
new  spirit  developed  it  on  reconstructing  the  middle  ages. 

Thursday. — Yesterday  and  to-day  I  have  been  looking 
over  the  two  volumes  by  Baini  on  Palestrina.  He  was 
a  pious  man,  a  friend  of  St.  Philip  of  Neri,  the  son  of 
poor  parents,  poor  during  his  whole  life,  living  on  a 
pension  of  six  and  afterwards  nine  crowns  a  month,  always 
in  want  of  money  to  publish  his  works,  unfortunate  and 
of  tender  feelings,  having  lost  three  sons  of  the  greatest 
promise  and  writing  his  lamentations  in  the  midst  of  a 
keen  and  prolonged  chagrin.  At  this  epoch,  under  him 


346  HOLY   WEEK. 

and  Goudimel  his  master,  music,  half  a  century  after  th€ 
other  arts,  issues  from  the  slough  of  the  middle  ages, 
The  sacred  chant  had  become  incrusted  with  scholastic 
rust,  and  overlain  with  every  kind  of  difficulty,  compli- 
cation, and  extravagance ;  the  notes  when  referring  to 
fields  and  herbage  being  green,  red  when  treating  of 
blood  and  sacrifices,  and  black  when  the  text  mentions 
death  and  the  grave,  each  party  singing  different  words, 
and  frequently  songs  of  a  worldly  type.  The  composer 
selected  a  gay  or  licentious  air — '  FHomme  arme,'  or 
'  TAmi  Baudichon,  madame ' ;  and  with  this,  through  the 
many  subtleties  and  vagaries  of  counterpoint,  composed  a 
mass.  Pedantry  and  license,  the  mechanical  regimen  of 
the  middle  ages,  had  degraded  and  confused  the  mind  in 
music  as  in  literature,  and  produced  poets  in  the  fifteenth 
century  as  affected  and  insipid  as  its  musicians.*  The 
religious  sentiment  reappeared,  protestant  with  Luther 
and  cathob'c  with  the  Council  of  Trent,  Among  the 
protestants,  Goudimel,  a  martyr  of  St.  Bartholomew,  gavo 
the  music  of  the  heroic  hymns  of  the  stake  and  the 
battle-field  ;  among  the  Catholics,  Palestrina,  invited  by 
the  Pope,  gave  the  vague  and  vast  harmonics  of  the 
mystic  desolation  and  supplications  of  an  entire  people, 
infantile  and  melancholy,  prostrate  beneath  the  hand  of 
God. 

These  two  Miserere  are  above  and  perhaps  beyond  all 
music  to  which  I  ever  listened ;  previous  to  acquaintance 
with  these  one  could  only  imagine  such  sweetness  and 
melancholy,  such  strangeness  and  sublimity.  Three 
points  are  very  striking : — discords  abound  sometimes  so 
as  to  produce  what  in  ears  like  ours,  accustomed  to  agree- 
able sensations,  we  call  false  votes;  —  the  parts  are 
multiplied  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  so  that  the  same 

*  See  Lydgate,  Occleve,  Hawcsin  England,  Brandt  in  Germany,  Charlei 
•f  Orleans,  and  the  poesy  of  Froissard  in  Fj-a.noe. 


THE  PAULINE  CHAPEL.  847 

chord  contains  three  or  four  harmonies  and  two  or  three 
discords,  all  constantly  decomposed  and  recomposed  in  its 
various  portions ;  some  voice  at  every  instant  is  heard 
detaching  itself  through  its  own  theme,  the  aggregate  num- 
ber being  so  well  distributed  that  the  harmony  seems  an 
effectof  chance,  like  the  lowandintermittent  conceit  of  rural 
harmonies ;—  the  continuous  tone  is  that  of  a  plaintive 
ecstatic  prayer,  ever  persistent,  or  unweariedly  recurring 
without  regard  to  symmetrical  chant  or  ordinary  rhythm  ; 
an  indefatigable  aspiration  of  the  suffering  heart  which 
can  and  will  find  rest  only  in  God,  the  ever-renewed 
yearnings  of  captive  spirits  sinking  to  their  native  dust 
through  their  own  burden,  the  prolonged  sighs  of  an  in- 
finite number  of  loving,  tender,  unhappy  souls,  never 
discouraged  in  adoring  and  in  worshipping. 

The  spectacle  is  as  admirable  for  the  eye  as  for  the  ear. 
Tapers  are  extinguished  one  by  one,  the  vestibule  grows 
dark,  the  grand  figures  of  the  frescoes  move  obscurely  in 
shadow.  You  advance  a  few  paces,  and  stand  before  the 
Pauline  chapel,  radiant  like  the  paradise  of  angels,  with 
halos,  lights,  and  incense.  Story  upon  story  of  tapers 
ascend  above  the  altar  like  a  glorious  shrine,  while  lustres 
descend  expanding  their  gilded  arabesques,  their  fountains 
of  sparks,  their  glittering  splendour,  and  their  diamond 
plumes  like  the  mystic  birds  of  Dante.  Scales  of  jet  flood 
the  sanctuary  with  flashing  brightness,  and  the  twining 
columns  wind  their  blue  spiral  shafts  up  among  the- 
charming  forms  of  angels,  surrounded  by  rolling  clouds  of 
incense  and  an  atmosphere  of  exquisite  perfumes.  All 
the  dazzling  and  fairy-like  splendour  of  this  delicious  fete 
is  the  work  of  Bernini ;  his  Saint  Theresa  of  the  Chiesa 
Jclla  Vittoria  contemplates  all  this  in  her  swoon,  and  it 
is  here  that  she  ought  to  be. 

Meanwhile,  in  St.  Peter's,  between  two  files  of  soldiery, 
you  see  a  procession  advancing  to  perform  the  ceremony 


848  HOLY  WEEK. 

of  washing  the  feet.  First  come  the  monsignori,  with  theii 
spirituelle  physiognomies,  then  the  cardinals  in  purple, 
with  red  hats  in  their  hands,  followed  by  their  acolytes, 
then  chanoines  dressed  in  bright  red,  and  finally  the 
twelve  apostles  in  blue,  wearing  a  singular  white  hat  and 
carrying  a  bouquet  in  their  hands.  Elsewhere  in  a  hospital 
are  Roman  ladies  in  black  robes,  and  in  the  white  aprons 
of  nuns  doing  the  same  service.  Here  three  or  four 
hundred  peasants  are  received  for  the  fete ;  ladies  of  the 
highest  rank,  princesses,  wash  their  feet,  clothe  them, 
feed  them,  and  put  them  to  bed.  This  furnishes  an  outlet 
for  the  violent  and  intermittent  desire  for  Christian 
emotion  and  humiliation. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GOOD  FRIDAT THE  PAPACY  IN  ST.  PETER'S — THE  TOMBS  OF   TH*' 

POPES— EASTER  SUNDAY — CEREMONY — THE  POPE — THE  AUD1ENCK 
PEASANTS — THE  PAST  AND  FUTURE  OF  ITALY. 

Good  Friday. — A  third  Miserere,  a  little  inferior  to  the 
preceding,  and,  again  to-day  the  Pauline  chapel  without 
its  illuminations,  is  ridiculous;  you  discover  that  the 
blue  columns  and  most  of  its  gilding  is  simply  deception. 
Michael  Angelo's  last  two  frescoes,  '  The  Crucifixion  of 
St.  Peter '  and  '  St.  Paul  stricken  to  the  ground  '  are  only 
technically  admirable. 

In  the  basilica  of  St.  Peter  a  cardinal  with  two  red  capa 
is  seated  five  steps  above  the  floor,  on  a  carved  chair  of 
dark  wood  and  holding  in  his  hand  a  long  wand  with  which 
he  touches  the  skulls  of  kneeling  penitents :  the  touch 
gives  special  indulgences.  The  cardinal  is  sixty  years  of 
age,  big  and  dressed  in  purple,  and  his  gravity  is  admirable ; 
not  a  muscle  of  his  face  stirs ;  he  might  be  taken 
for  a  majestic  hieratic  Bouddha.  From  time  to  time  a 
file  of  black  capuchins  pass,  and  one  stops  to  contemplate 
among  these  hooded  inquisitors  this  or  that  cardinal 
with  a  long  yellow  face  and  black  penetrating  eyes,  a 
sort  of  Ximenes  without  position.  The  crowd  around 
presses  here  and  there,  and  waves  like  the  billows: 
but  the  church  is  so  vast  that  conversations  and  the 

huffling  of  feet  are  deadened  and  swallowed  up  in  one  vast 

lurmur. 
This  visit  of  to-day  is  perhaps  one  of  my  last ;  I  will 


350  HOLT  WEEK. 

try  to  review  the  ensemble  of  the  edifice.  By  degree* 
the  eye  becomes  accustomed  to  it ;  you  take  the  work  for 
what  it  is,  such  as  its  founders  conceived  it ;  you  do  not 
regard  it  as  a  Christian  but  as  an  artist.  It  is  no  longer 
a  church,  but  a  monument,  and  from  this  point  of  view 
is  assuredly  one  of  man's  masterpieces. 

The  Sistine  stairway  with  its  garlanded  arch  and  the 
long  development  of  its  descent  is  incomparably  noble 
and  well  proportioned.  St.  Peter's  is  similar  to  it,  ornate 
without  being  overcharged,  grand  without  enormity,  and 
majestic  without  being  overwhelming.  You  enjoy  the 
simple  rotundity  of  the  arches  and  cupola,  their  amplitude 
and  solidity,  their  richness  and  their  strength.  These 
gilded  compartments  that  border  the  great  vault,  those 
marble  angels  seated  on  its  curves,  that  superb  baldachino 
of  bronze  supported  by  its  spiral  columns,  those  pompous 
mausoleums  of  the  Popes,  form  altogether  a  unique 
combination ;  never  was  there  a  more  magnificent  pagan 
fete  offered  to  a  Christian  God. 

What  is  the  God  of  this  temple?  At  the  back  of  the 
apsis,  above  the  altar,  on  the  spot  ordinarily  appropriated 
to  the  Virgin  or  to  Christ,  is  the  chair  of  St.  Peter ;  it  is 
this  which  is  the  patron  and  sovereign  of  the  place. 
Official  terms  complete  its  meaning ;  the  Pope  is  called 
His  Holiness,  The  Blessed  Father  ;  they  appear  to  regard 
him  as  already  in  paradise. 

Almost  all  the  mausoleums  of  the  Popes  are  imposing, 
and  especially  that  of  Paul  III.  by  Delia  Porta.  Two 
figures  of  Virtues,  half-reclining  on  his  tomb,  display 
their  beautiful  forms  in  bold  attitudes  ;  the  elder  dreama 
with  proud,  superb  gravity ;  the  younger  has  the  rich 
beauty,  the  sensual  and  spirituelle  head,  the  waving  tresses, 
and  the  delicate  ear  of  the  Venetian  figures.  She  waa 
once  almost  nude,  but  has  since  been  draped ;  this 
passage  of  the  sculpture  of  nature  to  the  sculpture  of 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  POPES.  351 

decency  marks  the  change  which  separates  the  Renais- 
sance from  Jesuitism.* 

I  do  not  know  why  Stendhal  so  highly  praises  the 
mausoleum  of  Clement  III.  by  Canova ;  its  figures  are 
like  those  by  Girodet  or  Guerin,  insipid  or  attitudinising. 
In  this  respect,  recent  tombs  are  instructive.  The  more 
a  monument  approaches  our  time  the  more  do  its  statues 
assume  a  spiritualistic  and  pensive  expression ;  the  head 
usurps  all  the  attention  ;  the  body  is  reduced,  veiled,  and 
becomes  accessory  and  insignificant. 

For  example,  consider  in  turn  the  tomb  of  Benedict 
XIV.  who  died  in  the  last  century,  and  by  its  side  the 
mausoleums  of  Pius  VII.  and  Gregory  XVI ;  on  the 
former  are  seated  or  in  action  beautiful  female  figures, 
Btill  healthy  and  strong,  well  posed  and  animated;  on 
the  other  two  the  Virtues  consist  of  carefully  rasped, 
draped,  and  interesting  skeletons.  We  shall  finally  end 
in  no  longer  appreciating  form  or  substance,  but  simply 
spirit  and  expression. 

Easter  Sunday. — The  weather  has  changed  for  the 
•worse,  the  rain  falls  in  sudden  showers ;  but  the  crowd 
is  spread  all  over,  in  the  square,  on  the  staircases,  in 
the  porticoes,  engulphing  itself  with  a  prolonged  mur- 
mur in  the  immensity  of  the  basilica. 

In  this  human  ocean  the  slow  undulating  billows 
gradually  form  and  break ;  before  the  statue  of  St.  Peter 
the  flood  advances  and  recedes  under  the  reflux  of  pre- 
ceding waves.  Pushing  and  crowding  every  moment 
augments  or  decreases  the  disorderly  movement  of  this 
mass ;  a  tumultuous  and  noisy  confusion  of  steps,  of 
rustling  robes,  and  of  words  rumbling  among  the  grand 
walls,  while  aloft,  above  this  agitation  and  murmur,  one 

*  The  complaints  of  a  celebrated  French  Catholic  have  lately  led  to  • 
recrudescence  of  modesty ;  35000  francs  have  been  laid  out  in  sheet-iroi 
ikirta  for  the  angels  and  mints. 


852  HOLT   WEEK. 

perceives  the  peaceful  vaulted  spaces,  the  luminous  void  ol 
the  domes  and  the  stories  of  borderings,  ornaments,  and 
gtatues  superposed  one  above  another  and  filling  the  wind- 
ing abyss  of  the  cupola. 

In  this  sea  of  bodies  and  heads  a  double  dyke  of  soldiers, 
chanters,  and  choir-boys  form  a  bed  in  which  flows  the 
Bolemn  and  pompous  retinue ;  first  are  the  garda  nobile, 
red  and  black  and  wearing  casques;  then  red  chamberlains ; 
farther  on  prelates  in  purple,  then  masters  of  ceremonies 
in  pourpoints  and  black  mantles,  after  these  the  cardinals, 
and  last  the  sovereign  pontiff  borne  by  acolytes  in  a  chair 
of  red  velvet  embroidered  with  gold,  wearing  a  long 
white  robe  worked  with  gold,  and  on  his  head  the 
triple  golden  tiara.  Fans  of  the  plumes  of  ostriches 
wave  around  him.  He  has  a  benevolent,  affectionate 
expression;  his  fine  pale  countenance  is  that  of  an  invalid ; 
you  think  with  regret  how  much  he  must  suffer  just  at 
this  moment  with  his  leg  wrapped  in  bandages.  The 
benediction  is  quietly  given  with  a  gentle  smile. 

The  soldiers  and  the  chanters  were  talking  gaily  an 
instant  before  his  passage ;  a  moment  after  a  trumpet 
in  the  apsis  plays  an  operatic  air,  and  two  or  three  of  the 
soldiers  begin  to  hum,  keeping  time  in  harmony ;  but  the 
people,  the  peasants,  look  as  if  they  were  gazing  on  God 
the  Father.  You  ought  to  see  their  faces  and  those 
especially  around  the  statue  of  St.  Peter.  They  flock 
around  it  by  turns,  almost  stifling  themselves  in  order  to 
kiss  its  bronze  foot,  now  nearly  worn  away  ;  they  caress  it, 
pressing  their  brows  against  it ;  many  of  them  have  come 
on  foot  from  a  distance  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  ignorant  of 
where  they  are  to  pass  the  night.  Some,  rendered  dowsy 
by  the  change  of  air,  sleep  standing  against  a  pilaster, 
and  their  wives  push  them  with  their  elbows.  Severn] 
possess  the  Roman  heads  of  the  statues,  the  low  brow, 
angular  features,  hard  and  sombre  expression ;  othera 


THE   PEASANTS.  353 

the  regular  visage,  ample  beard,  warm  glowing  colour, 
and  naturally  crisp  locks  visible  in  paintings  of  the 
Renaissance  epoch.  You  could  not  imagine  a  more 
vigorous  and  more  uncultivated  race.  They  wear  a 
strange  costume — old  sheep  or  goat  skin  mantles,  leather 
leggings,  blue  vests  a  hundred  times  soaked  with  rain, 
and  sandals  of  hide  as  in  primitive  times ;  the  odour  from 
all  this  is  insupportable.  Their  eyes  are  fixed  and  as 
brilliant  as  those  of  an  animal ;  still  more  brilliant  than 
these  and  more  wild  glow  those  of  the  women,  yellow  and 
sunken  through  fever.  They  resort  here  impelled  by  a 
vague  sentiment  of  fear  similar  to  that  of  the  ancient 
Latins,  in  order  not  to  provoke  an  unknown  and  dangerous 
power  that  might  visit  upon  them  at  will  a  pestilence  or 
tornado,  and  they  kiss  the  toe  of  the  statue  as  seriously 
ts  an  Asiatic  bringing  a  tribute  to  a  pacha. 

The  reverberation  of  the  mass  is  heard  half  lost  in  the 
distance,  and  the  grand  forms  shrouded  in  incense  add 
their  nobleness  and  gravity  to  its  mysterious  harmony. 
What  a  mighty  lord,  what  a  splendid  idol,  the  master  of  this 
church  is  to  these  peasants !  In  order  to  comprehend  the 
impression  which  all  this  splendour,  all  these  marbles  and 
gilding  make  on  their  minds,  think  of  their  smoky  hovels, 
their  desolate  campagna — of  their  rugged  fire-wracked 
mountains  and  black  lakes,  of  the  stifling  heat  of  their 
feverish  summers,  of  the  mute  uneasy  dreams  swarming 
through  the  brains  of  shepherds  during  lonely  hours  or 
when  night,  with  its  retinue  of  lugubrious  forms,  has 
weighed  them  down  upon  the  plain  I  A  lurid  sky  like  that 
of  yesterday,  afar  on  the  livid  plain,  and  the  gloomy 
vapour,  make  one  shudder.  The  implacable  midday  sun 
in  a  rocky  hollow  or  near  the  putrefaction  of  a  marsh, 
gives  one  a  vertigo.  We  know  by  the  ancient  Romans 
what  a  hold  superstition  had  on  man  among  these  stagnant 
pools,  these  sulphurous  wastes,  these  shattered  mountains, 

A  A 


354  HOLr  WEEK. 

and  these  metallic  lakes,  and  the  peasants  we  now  6e« 
have  no  healthier  or  more  cultivated  or  more  collected 
minds  than  the  soldiers  of  Papirius. 

The  crowd  pass  out  and  await  the  Pope,  who  is  to  appeal 
on  the  grand  balcony  of  St.  Peter's  and  bestow  the 
benediction.  The  rain  increases,  and  as  far  as  the  eye 
cun  see  on  the  pluzza,  in  the  street,  and  on  the  terraces, 
the  multitude  swarms  and  is  heaped  up, — cavalry,  infantry, 
carriages,  pedestrians  under  umbrellas,  with  peasants 
dripping  under  their  sheepskin  coverings.  They  herd 
together  by  families,  gaze,  and  eat  their  lupines;  that 
which  astonishes  them  the  most  is  the  uniforms  and 
the  long  columns  of  French  troops.  Their  children,  in 
sheepskins  and  clinging  to  the  pillars,  seem  to  be  a  troop 
of  wild  colts. 

The  balcony  remains  empty ;  the  Pope  is  too  ill  and 
unable  to  finish  the  ceremony.  The  crowd  disperses  in 
the  rain  and  in  the  mud.  As  the  people  say,  the  Pope  is 
decidedly  jettatore ;  we  have  this  bad  weather  because 
he  could  only  accomplish  the  half  of  the  ceremony. 

Here,  after  fourteen  centuries  is  the  Jinale  of  Roman 
pomp,  for  it  is  veritably  the  ancient  Roman  empire  which 
here  lives  and  still  endures.  It  sunk  into  the  earth 
under  the  heavy  blows  of  the  barbarians,  but  with  the 
universal  rejuvenescence  it  reappeared  in  a  new  form, 
a  spiritual  and  no  longer  a  temporal  form.  The  entire 
history  of  Italy  is  contained  foreshortened,  in  a  single 
word — it  has  remained  too  Latin.  The  Heruli,  the  Ostro- 
goths, the  Lombards,  the  Franks  did  not  plant  themselves 
well,  or  did  not  sufficiently  dominate ;  she  was  not  German- 
ised like  the  rest  of  Europe,  she  found  herself  in  the  tenth 
century  about  as  she  was  three  hundred  years  before 
Christ,  municipal  and  not  feudal,  ignorant  of  that  vassal 
fidelity  and  that  soldier's  honour  which  fashioned  the  great 
states  and  peaceful  communities  of  modern  times  surren- 


THE   PAST   AND   FUTURE   OP   ITALY.  554 

dered  like  antique  cities  to  mutual  hatred,  to  intestine  com- 
motion, to  republican  seditions,  to  local  tyrannies,  to  the 
right  of  force,  and  hence  to  the  reign  of  private  violence, 
to  oblivion  of  a  military  spirit,  and  to  the  ways  of  the 
assassin.  When  a  central  power  threatened  to  establish 
Iteelf  the  Pope  stirred  up  the  mi. ^icipal  forces  against  it ; 
Lombards,  Hohenstaufen  of  the  north,  Hohenstaufen  of 
the  south,  he  destroyed  them  all ;  the  spiritual  sovereign 
could  not  tolerate  a  great  lay  monarch  by  his  side,  and  in 
order  to  remain  independent  he  prevented  the  nation  from 
organising.  This  is  why  in  the  sixteenth  century  whilst, 
throughout  Europe,  society,  expanded  and  transformed, 
modelled  and  raised  up  regular  monarchies  side  by  side 
with  each  other,  supported  by  the  courage  of  subjects,  and 
organising  governments  upheld  by  the  practice  of  justice, 
Italy,  divided  into  petty  tyrannies  and  parcelled  into 
feeble  republics,  debased  in  its  morals  and  emasculated  in 
its  instincts,  found  itself  shut  up  within  the  narrow  bounds 
of  antique  civilisation  under  the  impotent  patronage  of  a 
spiritual  Ciesar  who  had  prevented  her  union  without 
being  capable  of  protecting  her.  She  was  invaded, 
pillaged,  dismembered,  and  sold.  In  this  world  whoever  is 
feeble  becomes  the  prey  of  others  ;  he  who  to-day  neglects 
to  manufacture  rifled  cannon  and  ironclads  will  to-morrow 
be  protected  and  spared,  the  day  after,  a  stepping-stone  to 
tramp  over,  and  the  day  after  that  a  booty  to  be  consumed. 
If  Italy  for  three  centuries  subsided  into  decay  and 
servitude  it  is  because  she  did  not  repudiate  municipal 
and  Roman  traditions.  She  is  casting  them  off  at  thin 
moment ;  she  comprehends  that  in  order  to  maintain  herself 
erect  by  the  side  of  great  military  monarchies,  she  herself 
must  become  a  great  military  monarchy ;  that  the  old 
Latin  system  has  produced  and  prolonged  her  weakness ; 
that  in  the  world  as  it  now  is,  an  assemblage  of  petty 
States,  blessed  and  manrcuvred  by  a  cosmopolite  prince, 


366  HOLT  WEEK. 

belongs  to  its  powerful  neighbours  desirous  of  making  UB« 
of  it  or  of  taking  possession  of  it.  She  recognises  that 
the  two  prerogatives  which  constitute  her  pride  are  the 
two  sources  whence  flow  her  misery;  that  municipal 
independence  and  pontifical  sovereignty,  emancipative  in 
the  middle  ages,  are  pernicious  in  modern  times ;  that  the 
institutions  which  protected  her  against  the  invaders  of 
the  thirteenth  century  delivered  her  over  to  the  invaders 
of  the  nineteenth ;  that  if  she  no  longer  desires  to  remain 
a  promenade  for  the  idle,  a  spectacle  for  the  curious,  a 
seminary  of  chanters,  a  salon  for  sigisbes,  an  antichamber 
for  parasites,  she  must  become  an  army  of  soldiers,  a 
corporation  of  manufacturers,  a  laboratory  for  savants,  and 
a  people  of  labourers.  In  this  transformation,  so  vast,  she 
finds  her  stimulus  in  the  souvenir  of  past  evils  and  in  the 
contagion  of  European  civilisation.  And  this  in  much :  is 
it  sufficient  ? 


INDEX. 


N.  B.  The  author  J  allowed  no  particular  system  In  the  spelling  of  names— 
lometimes  using  the  Italian,  sometimes  the  French,  sometimes  the  I«atin.  They 
bayc  been  indexed  as  he  gave  them,  and  an  effort  has  sometimes  been  made  to  fa- 
cilitate finding  them  by  cross-references. 

Where  the  term  "  Saint"  is  part  of  the  name  of  a  locality  or  work  of  art,  the  name 
has  been  indexed  under  "Saint ;"  or,  sometimes,  owing  to  the  fact  mentioned  in 
the  last  paragraph,  under  "Sow,"  or  '•'Santa.'1''  But  where  a  personal  "Saint"  if 
alluded  to,  the  place  in  the  index  is  determined  by  the  personal  name. 

The  names  or  works  of  art  or  literature  are  included  between  inverted  commas ; 
«.  a.,  'Adone.'  These  are  not  only  indexed  independently,  but  also  referred  to  in 
order,  under  the  names  of  their  creators. 

ian,  140;  Ancient  and  Modern  Require- 
ments, 146-7;  Modern  in  Rome,  971; 

About  Edmond  322  Taste  at  end  of  Sixteenth  Century,  296  J 

Academy  of  St.  Luke,  166  .  Modern  Etherealization.  351-53 

Achilles,  Sarcophagus  representing  MB    'Assumption/ by  Guido,  269 
story  112-13  Augustine,  St.,  9,  77 ;  his  Arm  sold,  254 

Addi-on  244  Augustus,  115, 133 

•Adone-  of  Marini,  257  Aurelius  (Marcus),  Statues  of,  59, 110 

'Adam  and  Eve '  by  Domenichino   230     Aurora,'  by  Gnercino,  206 ;    by  Guide. 
250 ;  by  Michael  Angelo,  191 

Agrippa,  133 

Agrippina,  Statue  of,  59 

Aldobrandi,  Bertino,  175 

Aldobrandini,  207 

Alexander  VI.,  177, 185 

Alexander  the  Great.  122 

Allegri,  345 

Alneri,  11 

Altar  in  the  Gesu  of  St.  Ignatius,  241-2 

'Amphion  and  Zethes,'  58 

Amphitheatres,  one  at  Bate,  36;  Gen- 
eral remark.-*  on,  37 ;  at  Pompeii,  51 ; 
Circus  Maximus,  134;  Marcellus's,  135 ; 
(See  Colosseum.) 

Ancient  Civilizat  jn  —  Characteristics, 
47-8;  Controlling  Ideas,  founded  on 
Physical  Perfection  and  Municipal  As- 
sociation,  53 

Andrea  Doria,  Portrait  of,  by  Sebastian 
del  Piombo,  226 

•Andromeda'  by  Guido,  232 

'Antinous,'  Statue  of  in  tl.e  Capitol,  111 ; 
at  Villa  Albano,  201 

Antonine's  Column,  17;  Statue,  59 

Antoine.  Marc,  154 

'Apollo  Belvedere,'  129 

'Apostles,'  by  Bernini,  262-3 

AraccelirChurch  of,  109 

Architecture— Effects  of  Good,  and  Illus- 
trations, 14;  Two  Orders,  15;  Fres- 
coes, in  connection  with,  144 

Aretino,  146, 159 

Aristophanes,  108, 112, 124, 159 

Aristotle,  76;  Bust  of,  114 

Ariccia,  324 

Arpino,  Chevalier  d'  82,  95 

Art,  Christian  and  Pagan  compared,  56, 
57,  68 ;  Decline  of,  116 ;  Motive  ofltal- 


Avignon,  36. 


Bate,  35,  36 

Balni,  345 

'Bacchanals '  by  Ginlio  Romano  901 

Balba  Family,  Statue  of,  59 

'Baldacchiruf  in  St.  Peters,  360 

Bandello,  Bishop,  177-8 

Bandinelli.  Baccio,  180-1 

Barbarian  kings,  statues  of,  110 

Barberini,  Piazza.  100 ;  Family  favored  by 
Urban  Vm.,  208;  feuda  witt  the  Far- 
nese,  211 

Bartolomeo,  Fra,  165 

Basilica  of  Santa  Crone,  %4 ;  of  Constan- 
tino, 18 

Ba<*san  95 

Baths,  (See  Caracalla,  I/locletian,  Pom 
peii.) 

'Battle  of  Constantino,'  by  Raphael,  140-1 

Beggars  on  the  road  to  Naples,  20 

Beethoven,  186 

Benedetto,  175 

Benedictines  of  Solesues,  337-8 

Benedict  XIV.,  Tomb  of,  351 

'Benevolence,'  painted  by  Lnca  Giorda- 
no, 96 

Berui,  177-S 

Bernini,  16,  255,  258,  261,  347 ;  Madonna, 
31;  St.  Theresa,  247;  Apostles,  2«2, 
263 ;  Pluto  bearing  off  Proserpine,  306 

Bologneae,  148 ;  their  School  of  Art,  226 

BoniTace  VIII.,  343 

Borges,  General,  63 

Borghese,  207 

Borgia,  Cesar,  147-8,  171,  184  C;  Laa» 


358 


INDEX. 


tla,  181);   Her  Portrait,  by  Paul  Vero- 
nese. 168-9 

Borromeo,  St.  Charles,  178 

Bourbons,  67-8 

Biamante,  15  344-5, 155 

'Brazen  Serpent.'  by  Michael  Angelo,  192 

Bridge  of  St.  Angelo,  16 

Brigands,  05,  67-8. 

Brouconi  Confraternity,  180 

Bronzino,  226 

Brosses.  De,  quoted,  212,  216 

Bnnsen,  339 

Burchard,  148 

C. 

Caesar's  Palace,  117 :  Statue,  110 

Caf6  Greco,  99 

Cagnacci,  'Lncretia  and  Sextus,'  168-3 

'Calandra,'  la,  185 

'Callisto,'  by  Titian,  167-8 

Oampagna  of  Rome,  7 

Camuccini,  2n 

'Canephora'  at  the  entrance  of  Braccio 

Nnovo,  124 
Canova,  128,  351 
Capitol  at  Rome,  108-10 
Capri,  41 
Capua,  89 
Capuchiii  Convent,   249;    Subterranean 

Chapel,  251 

Caracci.  227;  Pieta,  226:  Christ,  226 
Caracalla,  Bust  of,  115 ;  Baths,  134-8 
Caravaggio,  32,  148,  233 ;  'Entombment,' 

'Cardinal,'  A,  by  Domenichino,  201 

Cardinals  284 

Cartoons  by  Raphael,  143 

Carthusian  Monastery,  62:   Convent  on 

Lake  Albano,  327-8;  Cloister,  253-4 
Caryatides  of  Hall  of  Heliodorus,  156-7 
Casanova.  213-14 
Casa  Nuova,  48 
Castellamare,  39,  40 
Castiglione,  quoted,  171 
Castle  of  St.  Angelo,  130 
Castel-Gandolfo,  327 
Cato  of  Utica,  Bust  of,  114 
Cellini,  96, 146. 174, 178 
'  by  Guido,  233 
near  San  Giovanni  In  Laterano, 

•Chartreuse'  of  Naples,  96 

Chiaia  24 

Chigi,  Prince,  and  hi«  Villa,  324 

'Christ,'  by  Correggio,  163 

Christianity  (impression  oO  In  Rome,  252 

Churches  of  Rome,  234-6,  237 

Cicero,  Villa  of,  296 

Cigoli,  261 

Circus  Maximus,  184 

Civilization:  (See  Education,  Politics, 
Religion,  Society.) 

Civita  Vccchia,  4 

Clandian  Aqueduct,  323 

Clement  VIII.,  207 

Clement  XII.,  Ill 

Colosseum,  8-10;  Its  capacity,  9;  An- 
cient Shows  in,  9 ;  Cross  in  the  Arena, 
12;  View  from  Arcades  of,  12;  At 
Night,  19 

(fcKmn*  and  Oninl,  Feuds  of  toe,  173 


'Communion   of  St.   Jerome,'   by  Do 

menichino,  164 
CommodnB,  Bust  of,  115 
Confession  and  Communion,  Trade  in, 

305 

'Conflagration  of  Borgo,'  by  Raphael,  14< 
'Consecration  of  the  Church,'  96 
Corbulo,  Bust  of,  114 
Correggio,  148 ;  Picture  of  Christ,  163 
Corsica,  3 

Cosimo,  Piero  di,  180 
Cotton  cultivation,  72,  74 
Council  of  Trent,  240 
'Crucifixion  of  St.  Peter,'   by  Mlcli»» 

Angelo,  349 

D. 

'Danae,'  by  Titian,  63 

Dante,  186, 188 

Death,  Ancients'  Idea  of,  62 

Decamps,  63 

Degeneracy  of  the   Sixteenth  Century. 

Delacroix,  63, 152, 166 

'Delphica,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  194 

Democracy,  Roots  of,  340 

Demosthenes,  Bust  of,  114 

'Descent  from  the  Cross.'  by  Ribera,  32-3 

by  Raphael,  152 ;  by  Danieleda  Volter 

ra,  266 

Descent  of  La  Courtille,  182 
Detken's  Book  Store,  77 
'Diana's  Chase,'  by  Domenichino,  229-30 
Diocletian,   Baths   of,   138;    Library  at 

Baths,  252 

'Discobolus,'  120, 122-3 
'Doge,'  by  Titian,  163 
Domenichino — Communion    of   St.    J« 

rome,   164;    Cardinal,   201;    'Diana's 

Chase,'  229-30;  Adam  and  Eve,  230; 

Eve,  231 ;  Triumph  of  David,  231 ;  S». 

Francis,  250 ;  Martyrdom  of  St.  Sebas- 

tian,   252-3;    Four   Evangelists,    268; 

Judith,  294-5  ;  Frescoes  of  Grotto  Fer- 

rata,  297 

Donations  to  the  Pope,  316 
Dorocleides,  Inscription  in  honor  of,  128 
Doria,  Andre,  223 ;  Olympia,  223 ;  Palaco, 

223-4 

Dracontios,  quoted,  122 
Dress,  Influence  of,  on  Art,  113-14 
Duels  in  1537, 173 
'Dying  Gladiator,'  Statue  of,  111. 

B. 

Easter  Sunday  in  St.  Peter's.  361 
Ecclesiastic  Government,  311 
Education— Newspapers  and  periodicals, 

65, 76 ;  General  Features  in  Italy,  73-d8; 

in  Rome,  272-4 

'Entombment,'  by  Caravaggio,  163 
'Eurythrea,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  19 
Este,  Alphonso  d',  184 
Este,  Hippolyte  d',  177 
Esquilio,  Story  of,  318-19 
Etang  de  Berre,  2 
'Ever  by  Domenichino,  231 :  by  Miclu* 

Angelo,  192;  by  Raphael,  156 


359 


1Cv6qt:«  de  Liege,'  by  Delacroix,  146 
•Expulsion  of  Adam  and  Eve  from  Para- 
dise,' by  Michael  Angelo,  192 
Ezekiel,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  190 

F. 

Faenza,  Princess  of,  173 

Farnese  'Hercules,'  58,  138;   'Bull,'  58; 

the  Family  of  in  XVTT.  Century,  211 ; 

Palace,  218-220 
'Faun'  of  Praxiteles,  111 ;  other  'Fauns,' 

112 

Ferdinand,  King,  TO 
Ferrara,  Duke  of,  176 
Ferrari,  Professor,  77 
Fertility  of  Soil  near  Naples,  72 
Fetes— at  the  Vatican,  177 ;  ef  Lorenzo  di 

Medici,  180-2 

Fidenoe,  Acropolis  of,  293-4 
Finances,  74 ;  at  close  of  XVL  Century, 

Flarainio,  261 

Flaubert,  107 

Fontana,  261 

'Fornarina,'  by  Raphael,  238 

Foreter,98 

Forti,  28 

'Fortune,'  by  Quido,  166 

Forum,  134. 

'Four  Evangelists,'  by  Domenichino,  268 

Frascati,  Walk  to,  293 

Freedom  of  Speech,  77 

Fenelon  and  Homer,  197 

France,  its  present  reputation  abroad, 

12;  in  time  of  Boseuet,  330-1 
French  Occupation  of  Rome,  effect  of,  308 
Frescoes  —  Chevalier    d'Arpino,    294-5; 

Farnese  Palace,  159-62 ;  Sistine  Chapel, 

189-95;  San  Andrea  della  Vallu,  268; 

Vatican,  141 ;  Villa  Aldobrandini,  294 
Funeral  Procession  of  Capuchins,  249 

G. 

Gandie,  Duke  of,  174-7 

Gautier,  107 

Garibaldi,  36,  66,  73 

Genzano,  325 

Gem,  237-41 

Ghetto  of  the  Jews,  218 

Giaunone,  77 

Gioberti,  75 

Giordano,  Luca,  32.  62-3,  95-6;  Truth,' 
96;  -Benevolence)/  96 

Giraud's  Comedy,  'L'Ajo  nel  imbaraz- 
zo,'283 

Girotfet,  351 

Goethe,  56, 108, 183 

Goldoni,  213 

Gonsalvi,  Cardinal,  305 

toudimel,  H46 

Government,  obstructed  by  Sinecurists, 
69-71 ;  Characteristics  at  Rome,  272-3, 
287,  305;  Oppression  and  injustice, 
3DO-10:  Characteristics  of  Temporal  in 
Ecclesiastic  hands,  311 ,  315 ;  (See  Pol- 
itics.) 

Oozzi,  Carlo,  213 

ttregory,  Pope  St.,  77 


Gregory  XV.,  208 
Grotto  Ferrata,  Abbey  of,  206-7 
Guercino,  60,  206-7  ;  Magdalen,  60  ;   8t 
Petronia,  164-5  ;  Sibyl  Persica,  165  ;  An- 
rora,  206  ;  Herminia  meeting  Tancred, 
225-6 

Gnerin,  Eugenie  de,  240;  Sculptor  351 
'Ouida  Spiritual^  of  Molino»,  256 
Guido,  32,  207,  231  ;  Fortune,  166  ;  Rap* 
of  Ariadne,  166;  Aorora,  206,  232:  Mag- 
dalen,  221  ;  Madonna  adoring  the  In- 
fant Jesus,  226  ;  Andromeda,  232  ;  Cen- 
ci,233;  St.  Michael,  250  ;  Assumption, 


II. 

Hadrian,  Statue  of,  59 

Hegel,  75 

Hefue,  201 

Herculanenm—  see  Pompeii 

Hercules  d'Este,  176-7 

'Hercules,'  Statue  in  bronze  gilt,  113 

'Herminia  and  Tancred,'  by  Guercino, 
225-6 

'Hippias'  (In  Plato),  52 

Homer,  107,  121,  125;  compared  with  F6- 
nelon,  197 

'Holy  Family'  by  Titian,  224 

'Horse,'  statue  of  in  Mnseo  Borbonico,  58 

Houses  —  of  Eumachia.  45  ;  of  Marcus  Lu- 
cretius, 48;  of  Sallnst,  48;  of  Corne- 
lius Rnfus,  48  ;  of  Diomed,  49  ;  of  Livia, 
292;  commonplace  character  of  modern, 


Ignatius  (St.),  Statue  of,  342 

'fi  Mese  di  Maria,'  318-319 

Imola,  Prince  of,  173 

Imperia,  159 

Impressibility  of  the  Southern  Man,  240 

'Innocent  X.,'  by  Valasquez,  227 

Ischia,  37,  41 

Italian  Art,  the  Native,  140 

Intellectual  Condition  of  the  Country. 
(See  Education,  Politics,  Religion,  So- 
ciety.) 

J. 

'Jeremiah,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  190 

Jesuits — College,  77  ;  Spirit,  238-9 ;  Char 
acteristics,  ill ;  Policy  of,  243-7 ;  Pre 
scription  for  Devoutness,  245-7 ;  Ex«f 
cita  Spiritualia,  246 ;  (See  Religion.) 

'Jonas,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  190 

Josepin,  62,  261 

'Judgment  of  Paris '  by  Raphael,  164 

'Judith,'  by  Domenichino,  294-6 

'Julia,'  Statue  of,  126 

Julius  II.,  141, 147,  177 

'Juno  Queen'  of  Villa  Lndovial,  204 

'Juno.'  Statue  of.  111 

•Jupiter  Stator,'  Column*,  117. 


H. 


Kanu'e,  King,  254 
•Kyric,'  845. 


360 


INDEX. 


Labor,  State  of,  212;  (See  Politics,  So- 

ciety.) 

Landriani,  101 
Landscape  Art  in  Italy,  224 
Landseer,  227 
Lanfranco.  32,  62,  228 
Lapis-lazuli  (largest  piece  in  the  world), 

'LaocoOn,'  129-30 

'Larmoyeur,'  by  Ary  Scheflfer,  146 

'Last  Judgment,'  byMichael  Angelo,  194-5 

Latin  Spirit  has  retarded  Italy,  354 

•L'Aje  nel  Imbarrazzo'  of  Giraud,  283 

Lake  Albano,  327 


Legrain,  86 

Leo  X.,  184-6,  254;  Portrait  by  Raphael, 

59-60 

Leopardi,  78 
Liber,  St.,  254 

Library  of  Monte  Casino,  94 
Liguori,  St.,  250 
Livia,  House  of,  292 


•  in  Rome,  99 
'Loggia,'  by  Raphael,  158 
Lorraine,  Claude,  197 
LotteryOfflces,  267-8 
Louis  XIV.,  178 
Love  in  Italy  to-day,  80-2 ;  (See  Society 

and  Religion.) 
Luca  Giordano,  32 

•Lncretia  and  Sextua,'  by  Cagnacci,  168-9 
Lndovisi,  Cardinal,  206,  208 
Luoghi  di  Monte,  208 
Luther  and  Calvin,  Protestantism  of,  339 
'Lybia,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  190 
Lysippns.  120-1 
'Lysis'  o/  Plato,  123 
'LyBifltratus' of  Aristophanes,  124 


Macaulay  on  Catholicism,  340 
Machiavelli,  portrait  of,  by  Bronzino,  226 
'Madonna' — 'adoring  the  Infant  Jesus.' 

Guido,  226;  'da  Foligno,'  by  Raphael, 

151, 164 

Madonna  Boxes,  74 

'Magdalen'— by  Guercino,  60:  by  Tinto- 
retto, 165-6;  two  by  Guido,  221;  by 

Titian,  225 

'Mandragora,'  La,  185 
Manhee,  General,  68 
Manufacturing  Interests   obstructed  by 

Sinecnrists,  69-71 
Marcellus'  Theatre,  135 
'Mare  au  Soleil,'  by  Decamps,  146 
Marini,  258 
'Marriage  of  Alexander  and  Roxanna,' 

by  Raphael,  143, 154 
Marseilles,  1 

•Mars'  of  Villa  Ludoviai,  204 
'Martyrdom  of  St.  Sebastian,'  by  Dome- 

nichino,  252-3 
•Massacre  of  the  Innocents,'  by  Raphaal, 

its 


Mausoleums  of  .he  Popes  in  St.  Peter'* 

350-1 

Mandit,'  Le,  76 

Mechanics  of  the  Romagna,  306 
Medici,  Julian  de,  171 
Meleager,'  127-8 
Menexenes'  of  Plato,  123 
Mengs.  Parnassus,  201 
Mercury  Belvedere,'  128-9  ;  of  Ludovfcl 

Villa,  204-5 

Messalina,  Bust  of,  115 
Michael  Angelo,  15,  96,  150,  170,  188-195, 

218,  252-3  :    Moses,   105-6  •    Jeremiah; 

Ezekiel,   Persica,  Jonas,  Lybia,  Ery 

thraea,  190  •  Deliverance  of  Israel,  Mur- 

der   of   liasphernes,    Haman,   Adam 

and  Eve,  191  ;   Brazen  Serpent,  Eve, 

192  ;  Expulsion  of  Adam  and  Eve  from 

Paradise  192-3;  Twenty  Youths,  193; 

Delphica,  194;  Last  Judgment,  194-5; 

Figures  in  Sistine  Chapel,  344  ;  Cruci- 

fixion of  St.  Peter,  St.  Paul  stricken 

to  the  Ground,  349 
Miserere,  345  ;  those  of  Palestrina  and  Al- 

legri,  346-7 

'Mistresses'  of  Titian,  221,  224-5 
Modern  Art  in  Rome,  271 
'Modesty,'  by  da  Vinci,  221 
Molinos,  256-7 
Montaigne,  292 
Monte  Casino,  91-7;  Library,  Monks,  94; 

Church,  Altar,  Organ,  96 
Monte  Cavi,  327 
Monks,  Number  of,  in  Rome,  250  ;  Occu- 

pation of,  249-50  ;  (See  Religion.) 
Monuments   of  Rome  and  Paris   com- 

pared. 202 

'Moses,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  105-6 
Mozart,  153,  162 
'Multiplication  of  the  Loaves  and  Pishes,' 

by  Bassan,  95 
Municipal  Spirit  stimulated  bv  Papacy, 

355  :  (See  Politics.) 
Mnrrillo,  St.  Catherine,  163 
Musee  Campana,  59 
Mnseo  Barbonico,  63 

"     Pio  Clementine,  126 
Musset,  201 
Mustapha,  101. 


Naples—  Climate,  22-3  ;  Beauty,  23-4  ;  A 
Greek  Colony,  24;  Streets,  25;  People, 
25-8:  Disorder  Compared  to  London, 
25;  Spanish  Dominion,  25-6;  Monks, 
26;  Abbes,  26;  Statues  of  the  Virgin, 
Christ,  and  Saints,  26;  Churches  and 
Religious  Sentiment,  28;  Architect* 
and  Painters,  28;  Incongruous  Civili- 
zation, 50  :  The  'Naples  Psyche,'  59  ; 
National  Guard,  71-2;  Garrison,  72; 
Fertility  of  Soil,  72;  Cotton  Caltiva- 
tion,  72-4:  Schools,  77;  Intellectual 
and  other  Traiti,  75-«,  88-4 

Napoleon,  830 

Narcissus,  Statuette  from  Pompeii,  54 

Nardi,  Jacopo,  180 

Ncmi,  Lake,  326 

Nero,  Bust  of,  115 

Night  iu  Rome,  17-19 


INDEX. 


361 


Night  at  Sea,  2-3  I 

Nile,  Statue  of  the,  123 
Newspapers,  65 

o. 

Olympia,  212 

Slympiad,  122 
lympic  Games,  57 
Oppression  and  Injustice  of  Government, 

309-10;  (SeePofitics.) 
Oreini,  282 
Overbeck,  183 

P. 

Paganism  in  Catholicism,  27 

Painting,  Italian,  Contrasted  with  Greek 
Sculpture,  229 

Palazzo  dei  Conservator},  110 

Paleetrina,  345-6 

Palin  Sunday  In  St.  Peter's,  342-4 

Palma,  il  Vecchio,  167 

'Panebianco,1  Cardinal,  101 

Pantheon,  132-4 

Papacy.    (See  Politics,  also  Religion.) 

Parts  Monuments,  202 

Parmegiano,  61 

'Parnassus,'  by  Mengg,  201 

Passport,  the  Pope's,  271 

Paul  II.,  185 

Paul  III.— Portrait  by  Titian,  61 ;  Celli- 
ni's Account  of,  177 

Paul  IV.,  254 

Paul  V.,  207,  261 

Pauline  Chapel  Illuminated,  347 ;  By  Day, 
349 

Panaillippo,  34,  36 

Peasants,  High  Spirit  of,  71-2 

Periodicals  and  Papers,  76 

Perotto,  173 

'Perseus,'  by  Canova,  128 

•Pereica,'  by  Michael  Angelo,  190 

Perugino,  1, 149,  151-2 

Philosophical  Taste  of  Neapolitans,  75-6 

'Philip  II.,'  painted  by  Titian,  61 

Piazza  Navona,  Fountain  of,  17-18 

Piazzo  del  Popolo,  202 

Piedmontese,  Advent  of,  305-6 

Piranesi,  17,  98 

Pwaresco  Novels,  212 

'Pieta,'  by  Annibale  Carracci,  226 

Piombo,  Sebastian  del— 'Andrea  Doria,' 
226:  'Scourging,'  269;  'Visitation,' 228 

Pius  V.,  254 

Plus  VII.,  311 

Pius  IX.,  Character  of  his  Supporters, 
283-4;    Retrogressive,  311;    Per- 
eonal  Appearance,  352 ;  (See  Poll- 
tics,  Religion.) 
Plague,  the,  62 
Plato,  55, 123, 128 
'Pluto  bearing  off  Proserpine,'  by  Ber- 

nini,  205 

Politics— General  state  of,  in  Italy,  C5-85 ; 
Newspaper*,  65  •  Italian  and  French 
Revolution  compared,  69 ;  Sinecurists, 
69-71 ;  Peasantry  acquiring  property 
and  going  to  work,  72 :  Finances,  74 ; 
Epochs  of  Italy,  165 ;  Labor,  212 :  Pope' i 
pissport,  271 ;  Precetto,  272 ;  Ctovern- 


ment  has  crushed  patriotism  in  Roma, 
273-4;  'Italy  or  the  Pope?'  304-5; 
Government  uncertain  and  partial, 
305;  Italian  love  of  politics,  308; 
French  occupation  of  Rome,  308 ;  Po- 
litical oppression,  309-10;  Taxation, 
312-13;  Influence  of  Religion,  329-40; 
Latin  municipal  spirit,  354 ;  Essentiali 
of  Italian  progress,  356 ;  (See  Garibaldi, 
also  Victor  Emannel.) 

Pompeii.  45 ;  Temples  of  Justice,  45 ;  Ve- 
nus. 45;  Mercury.  45:  Neptune,  45; 
House  of  Euraachia,  45 ;  Forum,  45,' 
Curia.  45  ;  Streets,  47  ;  Houses,  48,  49 
50 ;  Theatre,  51 ;  Amphitheatre,  51 
Baths,  51  ;  Street  of  Tombs,  62;  Sub 
jects  of  Pictures  and  Statuettes,  63,  54; 
Religion,  57  ;  Excavations,  78 

Pompeio,  175 

Pompey  the  Great,  Bust  of,  114 

Ponte  Molle,  290-2 
San  Sisto,  159 

Pontormo,  180 

Pope,'  painted  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo, 
61 

Popes,  Interesting  Remarks  on  those  ol 
Sixteenth  Century.  254;  (See  Educa- 
tion,  Politics,  Religion,  Society.) 

Porta,  Jacques  della,  237 ;  Fra  Guglielm* 
della,  350 

Porphyry,  335 

Porta  Pia,  261 

Porta  Prima,  Excavations  at,  292-3 

Porticos,  29 

Poussln.  197 ;  Landscapes,  222 

''ozzuoli,  34-5 

Presentation  of  Christ  at  the  Temple, 
by  Fra  Bartolomeo,  165 

Preti,  62 

Proclus,  335 

Primaticcio,  50 

Provence,  1 

'Prodisjal  Son'  In  Vatican  Museum,  168 

Progress  of  Italy.    (See  Politics.) 

'Psyche'  at  Naples,  59 

'Pulpit  of  St.  Gndule,'  242-8 


Quirlnal  Palace,  106;  Gardens,  358-* 


'Rape  of  Ariadne,'  by  Gnldo,  166 

'Rape  of  Europa,'  by  Paul  Veronese,  116, 

117 

Raphael,  140-64 ;  Portraits  by,  59, 60 ;  Bat- 
tle of  Constantino,  140-1 ;  Loggia,  141- 
60 ;  Four  Stanze,  141 ;  Transfiguration, 
142-3 ;  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  143 ; 
Cartoons,  143-4;  Conflagration  of  Bor- 
go,  144:  Parnassus,  144-6;  Deliver- 
ance of  St.  Peter,  145;  Madonna  da 
Foligno,  151,  164;  Descent  from  the 
Cross,  152;  Marriage  of  Alexander 
and  Roxanna,  153;  Judgment  of  Paris, 
154;  Sibvls,  155-6;  Eve,  156;  Carya- 
tides of  the  Hall  of  Helrodoras,  156-7 ; 
School  of  Athens,  157-8;  Frescoes  Is 
Farnese  Palace,  159-168;  Venus  r» 


362 


INDEX. 


ceiving  the  Vaaa  160-1;  Psyche  borne 
througn  the  air  by  Cupids,  Venus  en- 
treatino-  Jupiter,  161 ;  Galatea,  161-2 ; 
Fresco  in  Academy  of  St.  Luke.  166: 
Violin-player,  220 ;  Portraits  attributed 
to  him,  226-7 ;  two  Portraits,  227 ;  For- 
narina,  233 ;  Suonatore,  267 

Refuge,  Places  of,  210 

Religion— Italian  compared  with  French, 
11 ;  In  Naples,  26-8 ;  Pagan  element  in 
Catholicism,  27 ;  General  Features  in 
Italy,  74-9;  Jesuits,  238-46  (See  title  in 
index);  Ecclesiastics  in  Rome,  249-50 ; 
In  city  of  Rome,  252,  266 ;  Gfuida  Spl- 
rituali  of  Moliuos,  256 ;  Influence  of 
Church  in  private  affairs,  273-5 ;  Super- 
stitions and  Ceremonies,  316-23;  Ec- 
clesiastical Government,  329-40;  Pro- 
testantism of  Luther  and  Calvin,  339 ; 
Macanlay  on  Catholicism,  340;  (See 
Romanism.) 

Renaissance,  Manners  and  Customs  of 
the,  172-8 

Renan,  76,  322 

Revolution,  Italian  compared  with 
French.69 

Ribera— 'Descent  from  the  Cross,'  32-3 ; 
Silenns,  60 

Rinaldi,  Count.  214 

'Rivals'  of  Plato,  121 

'River  God,'  Statue  of,  111 

Rocca  di  Papa,  327 

Romano,  Giulio,  159 ;  'Battle  of  Constan- 
tino,' 141 ;  'Bacchanals,'  201 

Romanism  in  Spain  and  Italy,  256; 
Catholicism  and  the  Pope,  329-33; 
Dead  Forces,  333-6 ;  Active  Forces, 
836-40;  Future  of,  339;  Macaulay  on, 
340;  (See  Politics,  Religion.) 

Rome— Ancient  Characterized,  9-10 ; 
Modern  Characterized,  100-6 ;  Present 
Incongruities,  13 ;  Ancient  and  Modern 
contrasted,  239 ;  Number  of  Churches, 
266 ;  Squalidity,  269-70 ;  Present  State 
of  Art,  271 ;  Precetto,  272 ;  Schools  and 
Professors,  Government  troubles  Stu- 
dious Men,  273;  Government  Influ- 
ence on  People,  273-4;  Alms  of  the 
Government,  275 ;  Poverty  of  the  Peo- 
ple, 275-7 ;  Social  Characteristics,  275- 
81;  Use  of  Patrons,  281;  Aristocracy, 
283:  Lack  of  Society,  284-5;  Occupa- 
tion of  Women,  285 ;  Occupation  and 
Interests  of  Men,  285-6;  Agriculture. 
286  ;  Social  Distinctions,  2811-7;  Scarci- 
ty of  Labor,  Government  Interference 
in  Private  Affairs.  287 ;  Taste  for  Equal- 
ity 294:  Peasantry,  298-304;  Indul- 
gence of  Government,  305;  Need  of 
Landed  Proprietorship,  306-7 

Rospigliosi  Palace,  Ceiling  of,  232 

Rosso,  174 

Rubens,  166-7. 


'Sacred  and  Profane  Love,'  by  Titian  228 
'Sacrifice  of  Abraham,'  by  Titian,  225 
'St.  Agnes,'  by  Titian,  225 
l*t.  Catharine,'  by  Murillo,  168 
•St.  Como,'  Church  of,  117 


'St.  Francis,'  by  Domenichino,  960 

St.  Germane  (town).  92 

'St.  Michael,'  by  Guido,  250 

'St.  Paul  Stricken  to  the  Ground,'  by  ML 
chael  Angelo,  349 

'St.  Petronia,'  by  Guercino,  164-6 

St.  Peter's,  13-17 ;  Louvre  and  Place  do 
la  Concorde  compared  with,  14 ;  Effect 
of  Facade  on  the  Dome,  14 ;  Faults  of 
Facade,  14  ;  Impression  of  Interior,  14 ; 
Composition  of,  15 ;  Character  of  Build  • 
ers  and  Statues  of  Interior,  16;  sum- 
ming up,  16-17  ;  Mausoleums,  350-351 ; 
Stairway,  350 ;  Baldacchino,  350 ;  View 
from  Steps  in  Holy  Week,  341-342 ;  Ba- 
silica on  Good  Friday,  349 

'St.  Theresa'  of  the  Chiesa  della  Vittoiia, 
by  Bernini,  347 

Salvator,  172 

Samnites,  90 

San  Andrea  della  Valle,  268 

San  Carlo,  85-6 

San  Carlino,  86-7 

San  Clemente,  269 

San  Francesco  a  Ripa,  269 

San  Gallo,  218 

San  Giovanni  in  Laterano,  262,  263,  265, 
266:  Torlonia  Chapel,  263;  Clement 
XIII.  Chapel,  263;  Grand  Altar,  263 

San  Giovanni  Piazza,  323-324 

San  Gennaro,  28 

San  Martino — Ascent  to  Convent  of,  28- 
29 ;  Convent  of,  29-33 ;  Church  of,  31- 
32 ;  Pictures  on  Ceiling  of  Church  of, 

San  Pietro  in  Vinculo,  105 ;  San  Pietro  in 
Moutorio,  269 

San  Sisto,  Cardinal,  180 

Santa  Maria  della  Pietra,  27 ;  Statue  of 
Modesty,  27;  Dead  Christ,  27;  Sensa- 
tional Character  of  its  Sculpture,  27 

Santa  Chiara,  27 

Santa  Fede,  28 

Santa  Franceaca,  117 

Santa  Maria  dcgli  Angeli,  252 

Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  7,  261,  262 

Santa  Maria  della  Pace.  154,  155,  248-9 

Santa  Maria  hi  Tratacvere,  268-9 

Santa  Maria  Sopra  Minerva,  266 

Santa  Temista  del  Monte,  266 

Sarcophagus  representing  Story  of  Achil- 
les. 112-13 

Sarto  (Andrea  del)  Madonnas  and  Ve- 
uuses,  228 

'Satyr'  (Statuette  from  Pompeii),  54 

Savonarola,  189 

SavorellS,  Vittoria,  285 

Sdieller's  'Larinoyeur,'  146 

Schidone,  62 

'School  of  Athens,'  by  Raphael,  167-8 

Srlil,  iermacher,  339 

Schools  District,  77;  (See  Education.) 

Sciarra  Palace,  220,  222 

Scipio  Africanus.  Bust  of,  114 

Scipios,  Tomb  of,  126  r 

'Scourging,'  by  Sebast  Jin  dol  Piombo,  261 

Sculpture,  Why  it  is  the  Greek  Art,  64-6; 
Greek,  contrasted  with  Italian  Paint 
ing,  229 

'Seuaca,'  Statue  of,  69 

•Septizonium'  of  Septimus  Sereros.  364 

Serapia,  Temple  of,  36 


INDEX. 


3G3 


•Bextos  Empirlcus '  Statue  of;  69 

Bforza,  Doke  of  Milan,  179-80 

Shakespeare,  186 

'Sibyls.*  by  Raphael,  155-« 

'Sibyl  Persica,rby  Guercino,  165 

Signorelli,  Luca,  94 

Sietine  Chapel,  Mass  at,  103-3 

'Silenus  '  by  Ribera,  60 

Sixtns  V.,  207,  254-6,  261 

Smuggling  of  Books,  78 

Society— Requirements  of,  11;  Italian 
Traits.  11-12;  In  Rome,  146-7,  172-8, 
875-87 ;  Representative  Figure  of  Mod- 
ern Society,  184;  Representative  Fig- 
ures of  Seventeenth  Century,  184, 197 ; 
Roman  Aristocracy,  207;  Roman  No- 
ble, 210,  211 ;  Moral  Decadence  of  the 
Seventeenth  Century,  213 ;  Guide's 
Time,  232-3 

Socrates  quoted,  47, 119-80 

Solimene,  32 

Sophocles,  57 

Sorrento,  40 

Spadaro,  Micco,  61-8 

Spanish  Color,  in  painting,  168 

Spaventa,  75 

Sbencer,  158 

Stanze,  Raphael's  four  celebrated,  141 

Stendhal,  5, 11, 128,  279,  815 

Strasbourg  Cathedral,  234-5 

'Snonatore'  of  Raphael,  267 

SWIM  Guard,  101-2,  342 


Tamisius  159 

Taxation,  312-13;  (See  Politics.) 

Temples,  of  VenuB,  117 ;  also  see  Pompeii 

Terence,  Bust  of,  114-115 

Theatre ;  see  Amphitheatre 

Theresa  (St.),  319 

Theophrastus,  Bunt  of,  114 

'Three  Ages  of  Man  '  by  Titian,  225 

Three  Graces,'  by  Titian,  229 

Tiber,  270 

Tibaldo,  Portrait  of  by  Raphael,  59 

Tiberius,  Statue  of,  59;  Bust  of,  115 

Titian,  167;  'Philip  if.,'  61 ;  'Paul  HI.,' 
61 ;  Dan*,  63  ;  Callisto.  167-168 ;  'Van- 
ity,' 168  ;  Mistress,  221 ;  Holy  Family, 
224 :  Mistresses,  two,  224-225 ;  'Magda 
len/  225 ;  Sacrifice  of  Abraham,  225 : 
St.  Agnes,  225 ;  'Three  Ages  of  Man,' 
225;~Sacred  and  Pro&ne  Love,'  228; 
'Three  Graces,'  229 

Titns,  Statue  of,  59 

Tintoretto's  Magdalen,  166-6 

'Tolla'  of  Edmond  About,  283 

Tomb  of  the  Scipios,  126-7 ;  also  tee 
Mausoleum 

Torre  del  Greco,  38-9 

•Tonw'  in  the  Vatican,  117-8 


Tosti,  Father,  94,  382, 833 
Toulon,  36 

Transfiguration1  by  Raphael,  142-8 
Trajan,  Bust  of,  115 
Triumph  of  Camilla  (a  renaissance  f6t«»i 

of  Death  (a  renaissance  fete),  180 
'Triumph  of  David,'  by  Domenichino,  W 
Trinita  del  Monte  Convent,  104 
Truth,'  painted  by  Luca  Giordano,  96 
Trivulzio,  172 

V. 

Vanity,'  by  Titian,  168 ;  by  da  VInot, 

221-2 

Vanvitelli,  252 
Valentinois,  Duke,  173-4 
Valery,  98 

Vatican,  108-9, 119, 130 
Vasari,  28,  148, 162, 175 
'Venus  Callipygis,'  59, 138 
Vera,  75 
Veronese,  116, 165— Rape  of  Enropa,  !!»• 

17;  'Lucrezia  Borgia,' 226 
Vespasian,  Bust  of,  115 
Vesuvius,  23 
Vico,  75 

Victor  Emmanuel,  36,  66,  71,  77,  287 
Vignolles,  218,  237 
Vinci,    Leonardo   da,   205— Virgin    and 

Child,  60;    'Modesty,'  221;   ^Vanity,' 

221-2 
Villas— Reale,  22;  Mandragone,  29,  42; 

Albani,  196-201;  Borghese.  202-3;  Lu- 

dovisi,  204-7 ;  of  Pope  Julius  m.,  280- 

90;  Aldobrandini.  294 
'Violin-player,'  by  Raphael,  220 
'Visitation,'  by  Sebastian  del  Piombo,  238 
Voltaire,  76 

Volterra,  Daniele  de,  266 
Volturno,  89. 

w. 

Washing  of  Feet  in  St.  Peter's,  347-8 

Wealth  of  Roman  Clergy,  306-7 

Well  of  Santa  Pudentiana,  263 

Winkelmann,  201 

Women— Of  Rome,  13 ;  of  Capua,  91 ;  ia 
Modern  and  Antique  Costumes,  125-« ; 
Occupation  in  Rome,  285;  (See  So- 
ciety.) 

'Wrestlers,'  by  Canova,  128. 


Xenophon,  128. 


Z. 


Zuccheri,  Lives  of  the  two,  M6-* 


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